Everyday around the sametime she listens to the same song
She listens to his weary voice sing
She listens to his weary voice sing
Letting her woes dissperate
Into the silences of her old jazz tune record
It carries so many scratches as she prefers it this way
It carries so many scratches
As she prefers it that way
Her feet would tap to the lights that flash by cities light
Her eyes would close to the moans of her delight
Feeling his hands as that old gutair would moan
Only the tattered hardwood floors could tell the tales
Scuffed with marks as his voice would carry
As she listened to him sing his weary voice and all
As she listened to him sing his weary voice and all
Lips pressed against the air
As that old jazz record would spin
She'd sway to the ways that versed harp would play
She'd sway to the ways that versed harp would play
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem