Little Nemo Fickleness
Better days are the property of past
Simple words and things, they become treasures so fast
I'm like the boy looking at his broken toy
Swearing on and on, he will never play again
Maybe one of these days, an angel in the sky
Will tell me why...
Why every ideal thing is here to die
Better days are the property of past
Simple words and things, they become treasures so fast
Just like a ghost, I will vanish in your mind
Am I with you now only for this favourite time?
Maybe one of these days, an angel in the sky
Will tell me why...
Why every person I love is looking for
New and higher days,
A new game to play
One more, without me.
