Σάββατο, 15 Μαΐου 2010

Our days of shooting stars.



There was a boy with stars in his hands
hidden songs in his hair, and a sunrise on his back
In a time when the roads would stretch endless
paved with gold, leading up above the dream

There was a place where horizons were absent
and all things could be reached with the tap of a wand
when the world was still magic and the footsteps were friends
and life was flooding out my cup of smiles and bicycles

Now the arc has been drawn and the ground comes back closer
my bright orbit has grown old into everyday gravity
and the choices that drove me and moved me and held me
they float up beyond reach of my fingers that fall

I am not really sorry for all those that have happened
and I'm not really sad for the things that have not
after all, in the end we are all only ashes;
your absence calls me not to forget that

I am not really sorry for all those roads not taken
and there's still some more time to catch up
but the truth is, you were so much wrong
for the faith and the hopes that you forced me to carry

Now the halo you nailed on my forehead is rusty
can't remember in which drawer I keep it
and the wings that would bring all my dreams in reach
they're now feathers inside my soft pillow

Now the boy with the stars in his hands has grown older
and though young he's as gray as you were
lacking faith, lacking loss, lacking dreams
he is glad that you're not here to see him

As I sit on the gold-paved sidewalk that's shinning
looking down on the shoes on the street
that go running towards blank horizons
I light a cigarette; and I regret for nothing

Nothing has gone as gloriously as you'd wanted
everything has gone terribly right
you are not here to see; but I brought you some flowers
my own guilty way to forgive you

There was a boy with wings on his shoulders
standing out from the crowd, the neighborhood's messiah
but his palms faded out the stars he was holding
now a memoir in some girl's wrinkling neck

I am not really sorry for letting it all go
I'm not sad I'm no longer your dream
In the end, we're all ashes and starlight alike
And this, I'm glad I can no longer tell you.

5 σχόλια:

  1. Αι σιχτίρ σκασμένο, με χάλασες άσχημα πρωινιάτικα.

    Το 'χεις, προχώρα.

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  2. Χμ. Εγώ γιατί θυμάμαι ότι κάποιοι φυτρώσανε δεύτερο συκώτι προσπαθώντας να σας εξηγήσουν ότι το εν λόγω αγοράκι πράγματι had stars in his hands όταν εσείς θεωρούσατε ότι έχει σκατά;

    Τσάμπα η ειρωνία οπότε ε.

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  3. Κι αν δεν ήταν το "had" που μας έκαιγε, θα ήταν η ανασκόπηση που μας επιτρέπει να αναγνωρίσουμε το ανεπιστρεπτί του ζητήματος.

    Μα δεν πειράζει, ΕΧΕΙ ΠΛΑΚΑ να χάνεις.

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  4. Μα ναι.
    Φέρε πίσω τη μύγα μου τώρα.

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