In Vienna there are ten girls
a shoulder where death sobs
and a forest of dried pigeons.
There is a fragment of the morning
inside the museum of frost,
there is a hall with one thousand windows.
Ay, ay, ay, ay!
Take this waltz, this waltz
this close-mouthed waltz.
I love you, I love you, I love you
with the armchair and the dead book,
in the obscure attic of the lily,
down the melancholic hallway,
in our bed made of moon
and in the dance that the turtle dreams.
Ay, ay, ay, ay!
Take this waltz, this waltz
this broken-waisted waltz.
This waltz, this waltz, this waltz, this waltz
of itself, of death, of cognac,
that wets its tail in the sea.
In Vienna there are four mirrors
where your mouth plays with the echoes.
There is a death for piano
that turns the boys blue.
There are beggars on the rooftops,
there are fresh garlands of tears.
Ay, ay, ay, ay!
Take this waltz, take this waltz
this waltz that is dying in my arms.
Because I love you, I want you, my love
in the attic where children play
dreaming of old lights of Hungary,
by the side of the warm afternoon's rumors,
watching sheep and lilies made of snow
by the dark silence of your forehead.
Ay, ay, ay, ay!
Take this waltz, this waltz
this "I love you always" waltz.
This waltz, this waltz, this waltz, this waltz
of itself, of death, of cognac,
that wets its tail in the sea.
This waltz, this waltz, this waltz, this waltz
of itself, of death, of cognac,
that wets its tail in the sea.
La la la,
la la la.
Ay, ay, ay, ay
ay, ay, ay, ay.