In a huge city
With soot, and rustle, and snowstorms
February will come to an end.
Snowbanks, porous, dirty and vast
Will melt away like sorrow.
And you will want some warmth so much,
And perhaps you will realise that the being to give it to you,
That being for you is me, me;
That being for you is me, me;
And voices of the skies, shrunken, tiresome during winter,
Will sing to us about spring.
And the sun, pale, poor, limpid, and unbelievable,
Will stretch its ray to me.
And you will want some warmth so much,
And perhaps you will realise that the being to give it to you,
That being for you is me, me;
That being for you is me, me;
I am that being for you,
Only me, that being for you, only me.
Trust me,
I am that being for you,
Only me, that being for you, only me.
Only me - for you, only me - for you,
Only me,
Only me,
Just for you.