Let me shut my tired eyes and see the slumber curtains rise
where my dreams are greeted by the light.
Many actors performing around my dreams that are swarming,
waiting for the morning, wishing to bid “adieu” to the night.
Acting out my life story, wishing to bid “adieu” to the night.
One man to the left, four women to the right.
Spotlights shining down on me, ready to pounce upon me.
The actors down on their knees begging to the night.
“Let there be a morning, with darkness as a warning,
should she be mourning the arrival of the light.”
Let me sleep until that hour, the arrival of the light.
The sun rise always gives me such a fright.
The women give her a hug while she slips away under the drug.
The actors in her life watch in mournful delight.
She stirs but a little, listening to the Devil’s fiddle.
Because he is caught in the middle, he kisses her to be polite.
The actors watch impatiently as he kisses her to be polite.
He waits, but she does not move, not even a slight.
Slumber is declared the winner, overtaking God’s greatest sinner,
not even a polite and pleasant kiss can stop the night.
I am she, and she is a heap on the ground, nobody but her actors around.
They strike their last pose without a sound, and here comes the light.
Now that she’s dead and her life: statues, here comes the light.
All that breathes are the butterflies in her stomach… the butterflies of stage fright.