In my room, way at the end of the hall
I sit and stare at the wall
Thinking how lonesome I've grown, all alone in my room
In my room, where very night is the same
I play a dangerous game
I keep pretending she's late so I sit, and I wait
Over there is the picture we took when I made her my bride
Over there is the chair where I held whenever she cried
Over there by the window, the flowers she left - have all died
In my room, way at the end of the hall
by: José Duarte