À Ces Matins Sans Âme

TO THESE SOULLESS MORNINGS… IN THE ABSENCE OF YOU

To these mornings with no warmth, sparks of light and intoxicating shadows, in the absence of you
To these sorrows with no remorse, to these winters with no colors, to these nights without you
Where I get high on the spirit of time, lost in between lures, without any true plan
Hiding in these moments called souvenirs, chimeras of the heart
that we believed sorrowless, a way to see each other, or way of saying
that we were eternal lovers, though in the absence of you… The tide pulls out,
without leaving a trace, would it only be of a hasty sigh…

To these soulless mornings, to this free space, that was once yours, to this forbidden happiness turned barren, that still bears your fragrance, those with which I become intoxicated, as in the absence of you, and for the moment of a desire, I can only pretend in half-hearted tomorrows, as my soul drifts off,
out of these walls, its way it will not find… in the absence of you

To these mornings with no dawn, nauseas of yesterday and dazed memories, in the absence of you
To this mist with no regrets, to these flavourless touches, to these nights without you
Where I lose myself to excess, illusion of a look, with no real shine
Confused for having never grasped its true nature, artificial little death
That we believed free from mirages, a matter of seeing each other, or way of saying
that beyond backlit painted images, in the absence of you… dusk wrapped with strings of white
It is nonetheless trompe-l’oeil, as this house made with glass, polished by the wind of time.

To these soulless mornings, to this free space that was once yours, to this forbidden happiness turned barren, that still bears your fragrance, those with which I become intoxicated, as in the absence of you, and for the moment of a desire, I can only pretend in half-hearted tomorrows, as my soul drifts off,
out of these walls, its way it will not find… indefinite drift… without forgiveness, without a word said… restrained dream and exiled hope… in the absence of you…
I am, truth be told, another of these mornings felted and weary…

Words: A. Foster
Music: A. Foster, Miss Isabel
Recorded at The Upper Room Studio