I don't like January or the white devils of winter.
In every snowfall I see the same trails,
little footsteps in the size of thirtysomething,
As they slowly leave.
I no longer pass by the street of Dositej,
And I don't have a clue when someone asks where is it.
The 206 steps of that alley,
I have never counted.
I have never protected you,
I have never cuddled you, looked after you.
Stomped on your love,
Had a number for everything.
I never was easy on you,
And I never knew how to stop or stay.
What will be of me, my angel?
I don't watch the movies from the early seventies,
It's enough of tears and sorrowful goodbyes.
Who makes stuff like that? There sure is some weird folk,
They cry so easily.
I have never protected you,
I have never cuddled you, looked after you.
Stomped on your love,
Had a number for everything.
I never was easy on you,
And I never knew how to stop or stay.
What will be of me, my angel?