Mists Of My Heart

The spiders of my oblivion
Are weaving walls of thread
Shaping pale hiding places
Veils of empty signs

I feel nothing but mists of my heart
I know nothing but mists of my heart
I feel nothing but mists of my heart
I know nothing but mists of my heart

I get closer - daring not to hope
Of course! They fly away
Trickeries of my memory
And not even illusions

Nothing to see on the fog-bank of my past
I'm striding through
Must I accept its refusal, its eternal withholding?

(Words: François, music: Simon)