From my hands sprout threads that weave forests, jungles, paradises, deserts to reach your hands that always hide behind your arms crossed, in your pockets of sadness, perhaps because you no longer know what to do with me. Where to get into to forget me soon, what piece of your old clothes to wrap me up for ever, for your peace of mind. Now that I'm just a shadow that oozes at times under two French words, that shadow you invoke with fear and leave it behind you so as not to feel pity.
I am a spectre that haunts your memory from time to time and I have lost the sinister spirit of love that made you look beautiful. You have discovered that my eyes are not so black, nor so bright, nor curious, but rather dead beans that haunt you overwhelmingly. My skin very cold, very soft, my drowsy hips, my feet of lead, my grey breasts, my waist covered with adornments of pain, everything in me is miserable and you have discovered it. I cry a lot, I complain more, I'm like an old and smelly cat, sullen and grumpy and rude that you prefer to ignore.
Look at me, love, look at me. I was light and now I am darkness, I was singing and now I am silence, I was joy and now I am weeping, I was yours and now I vanish in your memory.