Matte Kudasai

Matte Kudasai
Still, by the window pane,
Pain, like the rain that's falling.
She waits in the air,
Matte Kudasai.
She sleeps in a chair
In her sad America.
When, when was the night so long,
Long, like the notes I'm sending.
She waits in the air,
Matte Kudasai.
She sleeps in a chair
In her sad America.