Текст песни: Kirsty Maccoll - The Face








You take a final look around

And then you put your house key down

Upon the table by the note

You take your handbag and your coat

You dont want too much to carry

To slow you down on your way



You picture his face

In the morning

As he way going to work

Without saying a word

You saw the face

Of a stranger

It wasnt always like this before

His face like a stranger

You didnt know what to say

So you are going away

From the face of a stranger

And not the lover you knew before



Why should you want to call your friends

Why should you want to start again

You tried explaining through the years

But it would always end in tears

And one thing you know for certain

Youve said goodbye to the place



But still you picture his face . . .



Somewhere a telephone

Is ringing in an empty room

Miles away

You are looking at a new town

But you are thinking of the past

The rain is falling down

Why do you keep that photograph



Of his face like a stranger

As he was going to work . . .

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You take a final look around

And then you put your house key down

Upon the table by the note

You take your handbag and your coat

You dont want too much to carry

To slow you down on your way



You picture his face

In the morning

As he way going to work

Without saying a word

You saw the face

Of a stranger

It wasnt always like this before

His face like a stranger

You didnt know what to say

So you are going away

From the face of a stranger

And not the lover you knew before



Why should you want to call your friends

Why should you want to start again

You tried explaining through the years

But it would always end in tears

And one thing you know for certain

Youve said goodbye to the place



But still you picture his face . . .



Somewhere a telephone

Is ringing in an empty room

Miles away

You are looking at a new town

But you are thinking of the past

The rain is falling down

Why do you keep that photograph



Of his face like a stranger

As he was going to work . . .

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