DE BARRO.

I am looking at my life in the glass of a little puddle, and as I ponder, there pass the wasted hours, the withered dreams.

And there are your beloved eyes in the mirror made of mud, phantom of my cigarette, reproach and oblivion, condemnation and forgiveness.

Your distant eyes come back with the tears of that day. To think I laid in your hands a fault that was my own. To think I never called you and felt glad while you were suffering; to think I did not follow you and laughed when you went away in tears.

And today, when my life is worth less than this cigarette butt, only now do I know that contempt and resentment are made of mud.

And so, measuring your sorrow, night after night I spend, hoping to glimpse in the smoke of the cigarette I smoke your serene image. And when I find you lost between one cigarette and the next, I know it was all made of mud: my life made of mud, my love made of mud.