Within the truth we seek is room left for translation –
I call a spade a spade, yet it won’t be a spade at all
in Greek. Or French.
I thought I found the facts but they are buried deeper.
Depending on the language that we speak there is a
moment gone, or made a memory. Or both.
I do depend on you to read between translations.
We dig our graves and way too deep. There is no going back.
The truth is that we never kissed. I think that is the truth.
And you won’t call a spade a spade at all, I know.
If I translate my soul into your language nothing holds.
(Already I am losing you and still two verses more are waiting)
You don’t see eye to eye from where my view is,
as I can’t call your spade a spade, it is not mine.
We are in different truths it seems.
What we have missed in time, in space will not return. We have one life.
The truth is that the spade is rusty and the grave all dug and done.
And too much time is wasted on this urge we have for digging deeper.