Scritta da: Cristina Metta
A fairy tale in New York (with red scarf)
New York is frozen for March almost a desert
without gloves hands in pockets...
a red scarf around the neck
I drag my feet
it bothers me to think about you without being able to offer you the stars _ tonight
we are a little zombie you know how it is in war
against something without a name
spring is foreign to me
the real Killer is a laconic wolf like Leonard Cohen
it kills me to know where you sleep now
in secure arms that are not mine
remove my memory from my eyes
turn on at least one light in that windowless chest
and give me air
put me where the flowers can bloom
where there are trees
sidewalks with people taken by human malice
but if you want to kick me out completely _ tonight
it will perhaps be the right time
in which, in addition to loneliness, I feel inside the winter
the true one
with the wind between the trembling bones
my stomach on fire from too much cognac
with nerves tense with fear
to be alone
Once again
that's why winter is made
you know _ to break up
Liberty Street is silent with boredom
luxury predators are missing
the nocturnal cackles
there are only sirens and ambulances
who walk death
and U. S
all of us
we stayed here
prisoners of a strange enemy
while the chill air with its music box twirls among the skyscrapers
who dance as we dance
to the distant singing of the sirens
with the dead
with the wounded
hold on to miracles
to hopes
shiny shoes walk but not a noise
an icy hand on the temple _ as I would like the life before
a red wool scarf that winks at a traffic light
through without looking... me and my shoes are the only ones in Heaven
and what about you
who comforts you
who counts the clouds above your head
when you are in the middle of the embrace... you get lost or talk
there is a difference
you were silent with me because I made you dream
sex was not a meeting of bodies with me
but I fly
in all the feathers of your pillows you won't find summer
for I have taken away all the flocks
my bags of fairy tales
and the brigade of ghost poets
I have a smell on me that tastes good
the fried and takeaway shops are closed
I wrap the red scarf around my neck - looking at the clothes in the windows
I follow the trails of the street lights like a Ariadnè s thread
and all of this world brings me to you
apartment 112 seventh floor in the dark
who knows if you think about me and if you think about me Why?
I would break through the door with this ridiculous love like that
I shout your name in Central Park
sincerely? nobody cares
they will punish me for disturbing the quiet
almost naked with my red scarf...
but it's colder in me than outside
it is so cold that only as a drunk could I stop delirious
your call that call is not
a Cop stops me and I tell him I'm Leonard Cohen
why don't you arrest me? Becausè?
I tell him about my love drama
- go home - he says
I apologize and sing to Famous Blue Raincoat
while I tie my red scarf to a tree
why don't you freeze
hoping for tomorrow
the summer
with you
it would be better
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