Besedila: Demis Roussos. Disque D'Or. Shadows.

Shadows of a thousand faces keep on turning in your mind,
and forgotten names and places never really left behind.
Is it here imagination seeking shelter from the rain,
or a long self conversation once again.
Shadows never point a finger at the things you say or do,
silently they seem to linger any way you may run to.
Sharing every joy or torment, every laughter or despair,
facing you at any moment if you dare.

Gentle past at once surrender at what you didn't understand,
conquest of the night that ended holding you with trembling hands.
In a book a fall leaf-clover marks the days at below,
till she found that it was over long ago.
Little thanks had most of meaning leaving only emptiness,
tender words and simple feelings never eased your hungriness.
Yesterdays remain so sudden and tomorrows round the bend,
can you read the line that dark ends on your hand.

Both ends of a candle burning shine so brightly for a while,
rancours of a life reflecting in your smile.
Shadows never point a finger at the things you say or do,
silently they seem to linger any way you may run to.
Sharing every joy or torment, every laughter or despair,
facing you at any moment if you dare