All I wanted was this. A French song
bouncing around Paris—on my gramophone.
I got a taste of this in my life in love.
And now well I’m just alone,
sane, yet lonely.
I found the sweetness I had with her
existed just the same humming to myself alone.
Love isn’t afraid to wander away from life.
Love sounds just as good on the gramophone—
sane, yet lonely.
A soft piano. It’s time for “Autumn Leaves.”
Everyone is crazy. I wish I were crazy. Or drunk, at least.
But the love I had with her has made me think.
Walking outdoors. Or indoors. A muted trumpet implores,
sane, yet lonely.
The people I love sway in taste and beauty.
But aren’t they crazy? All of them—even her,
wise, but she, too, asked to be seen as beautiful.
Did I say, “sane and lonely?”
Sane I wasn’t, when I told them they were.
Now the tempo increases. Now the singer
is whispering. The harmony of the backup singers
invades like moonlight. All the singers
have a certain anonymity. Like me,
sane, yet lonely.