You see the border of her coat
Is torn and stained with sand.
And you see the corner of her eye twist
Like a crooked pin.
Silence . . . not a sound from the pavement.
Has the moon lost her memory? She is smiling alone.
In the lamplight the withered leaves collect at my feet
And the wind begins to moan.
Every streetlamp seems to beat a fatalistic warning.
Someone mutters and the streetlamp gutters
And soon it will be morning.
Memory . . . all alone in the moonlight.
I can smile at the old days.
I was beautiful then.
I remember the time I knew what happiness was.
Let the memory live again . . .
