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It is possibly, the same.
Even the day is as beautiful, as the night seems to me.
Even the day is as cynical, as the night seems to be.
Crazy in marvel, the night seems enigmatic,
Like decades ago, on cold winter rains in Paris.
Floating amongst the river, yellow lights on the side glow,
Amongst a melancholic mood, inspirational stars show.
Even the day is as dark, as the night seems to be.
Even the day is as passionate, as the night that I see.
I could paint a speck of wonder,
And my vain would float away,
I can lie to the world,
But how must I lie to my pain?
Even on a silent,
Cold winter night,
I feel charismatically empty,
Because,
Even the day is as illusory, as the night is to me.
Because,
Even the night is as scintillating, as the day seems to be.
Even the day is as cynical, as the night seems to be.
Crazy in marvel, the night seems enigmatic,
Like decades ago, on cold winter rains in Paris.
Floating amongst the river, yellow lights on the side glow,
Amongst a melancholic mood, inspirational stars show.
Even the day is as dark, as the night seems to be.
Even the day is as passionate, as the night that I see.
I could paint a speck of wonder,
And my vain would float away,
I can lie to the world,
But how must I lie to my pain?
Even on a silent,
Cold winter night,
I feel charismatically empty,
Because,
Even the day is as illusory, as the night is to me.
Because,
Even the night is as scintillating, as the day seems to be.
Published 26th Feb 2013
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