We were in a painting, the two of us
She was holding my hand
In the soft glow of our own bodies
And the warmth of her palm
I felt it in my throat, and on my face
We were in a painting, you and me
And the way you lay in my arms
I felt, a stranger in my own home
Who are you, who are you?
In one strange city of love, I found you
More on the theme of paintings