There is nothing to do at work.
My coffee gets cold and bitter.
So my thoughts travel to New York,
Where the streets are aglitter.
You are there, and I guess not alone,
Though I'm far from getting jealous.
If you come round to my place before
I go mad from my yearn, I'll be joyous.
I want ramble with you and speak softly
Language that use only lovers,
Watch, how the clouds are drifting slowly
Above a meadow sown with flowers.
I've done with my work. My coffee got cold.
My thoughts are still somewhere aside.
I languish for you and your tenderness
For melting, moonless nights.