I’m nothing more than a rag doll
full of bitter back stitch…

I’m nothing, but that clay pot,
abandoned on the shelf or on a step…
I’m nothing but mud, not even muck…
I am nothing but a rag, a useless wimpy…

You, who started the longing,
the desire and the singing…
You abandoned me as a dog,
in the street of the smog…

I do not want to see your eyes,
nor you mine, I presume…
I don’t feel anything for you…
nothing, but disappointment…