Pokloni mi bijelog slona
Bar jednom zavaraj mi intuiciju;
neka došeće crvenim tepihom.

Pokloni mi bijelog slona
U kutiji s balerinom,
neka opjeva joj melodiju pokreta.

Pokloni mi bijelog slona
Makar ne znala što bih s njim,
neka stoji na polici - kraj srca.

Ne poklanjaš mi bijelog slona.
Tvoji su slonovi sivi.

I look out of the window,
I see the morning sun pouring in.
The sky drowns in blood red sunbeams.
People walk by,
I’m getting used to nobody hearing the whispers of nature
Anxiety is written all over this place,
And back home the silence reigns.
I miss the cozy whispers of my home,
That is where my mind will roam;
And I despise the shouting of this town’s womb.

The art of blue.
Underneath the moonlit sky
When the streetlights hurt your eyes
And the cold breeze pierces through your skin

When the colors seem to fade
And the whole world turns to gray
When your footsteps echo through the night
Yet no sound is made

Roam! Roam until the silhouette should find its shadow.
For the sun will shine and you'll be whole again.

Though you should keep in mind:
The art of blue
Is ever to remain with you.

(You know the blue because the blue is you.)

There's a void.
I recognize the echo
in the lack of sound.

The 3 a.m. world
stares at me through the window.
The snow strives to conceal the void,
though ends dissolved in the warmth of
my blood.

So I stand sensing the void,
embracing the void,
being the void.
I stand serene.

(And the snow falls,
and the blood flows,
yet I stand - numb.)