Monday

I sustain the words I've said

with the words I'm about to say.

It's like booking up all his secrets.

respire, je veux plus secrets...

His voice is a trick;

in the blue he'd be smiling

and singing and dancing.

Under the sun he'd be dying.

What no longer lingers

in his mind remains.

Ages took to step forward,

one day to came back.

On tuesdays and sundays 

he dreams, then he falls.

Some nites, oh, some nites

... he's able to fly.

Under the whisper of the sky...

oh, he strives, full of spite.

Words are tricky

behind the wall of pity.

How can he lay up what he cannot see?

Vision is treason.

I won't let him bleed.

This is not an action of faith or fiction,

this is what it was, what it is, what's about to be.

What do he sees under the sea? 

under the mountain...

under the tree...

under every word I've ever said, which I do sustain.

On mondays, on wednesdays, thursdays, fridays and saturdays...

will you remember the things I've never said?