Breeze..,
Like the sound of
cold wind from the North.
As I walk
restlessly across the continent.
Another dark
coat, another job,
Another
limousine, another Mercedez,
Another Audi,
another Beemer,
Another
Chauffeur,
Another museums,
another churches,
Another hotel
room, another wretches.
Let them know
that if the Cello & Piano,
Come again into
my brain,
Or the heart of a
singularity,
Then who would
then that be the man at the door.
In the window.
Saying hello.
To the music of
locking secrets.
To the man in the
mirror, roar.
So I must run.
Like I always do.
Run.
Like when Nina
Simone used to say,
Where?
Where you gonna
run to Sinnerman?
When the movies
will catch you,
The beauty of
this world waits behind you,
The heaven of
this Earth showed upon you,
Will you resist
you?
The classics,
Or the beauty of
the accordion?
When even on the
train plays it the man of Lyon,
Au revoir? Or
Bienvenue?
The leaves have
left you,
Or is it the
sadness that they try to hide?
Or the clock that
is ticking?
How do I tell
them,
This little story
that I have,
Of how the world
has changed,
So much, that the
eyes have been blinded
That the only
real thing left,
Is the trust we
have.
To Him
So I must run,
and go,
To La
Grande mosquée de Lyon
So that may this
heart is tamed.
Like how it
always does.
Breeze..,
of Winter
of Europa.