Her brown skin shone, but not for me,
Her smile sang, but not for me,
Her hands danced, but not for me.
And I here, drank, sad and lonely,
Putting on paper her thought story,
Could this coffee then, be for me?
Poetry by Christophe Paternoster
Her brown skin shone, but not for me,
Her smile sang, but not for me,
Her hands danced, but not for me.
And I here, drank, sad and lonely,
Putting on paper her thought story,
Could this coffee then, be for me?