I felt at home in your arms,
and I'm getting really homesick.

(e.k.j.)

"Reincarnation is not real" I used to say,
You simply cannot come back from the dead,
I didn't believe it until this day,
seeing her standing there blew open my head.

God knows I loved that girl with all my heart;
I loved her for many centuries and I'll love her forever,
even the angels know that nothing can keep us apart.
I met her today in the park, we're entwined to be together.

I lost her many ages ago to her own hand,
her candle burned out by her own knife,
and I understood this world will never be her land,
so all I can do is wait for her in the next life.

She told me I love you then went away,
I couldn't stop her, I never would,
I simply smiled when I met her today,
and I know that although she's gone far away,
I'll see my love another day.

Oh father of mine, what has been of you?
What has life done to you,
you seem so tired already,
with your sorrowful eyes filled with memories.
I see your mistakes marked on the lines
of your forehead,
I feel in the touch of your hand
how much your bones tremble;
you hold me but your arms no longer hold strength.

Oh father of mine, what has been of you?
You left on a sunny day with your shoulders
so broad and filled with power,
-you left me smiling-,
while my mother's tears fell on me.
And now you've returned with your rags
soaked with cold rain,
your feet cut and burned by the fires you have crossed,
I hear you speak to me with a repentant voice.

Oh father of mine, what has been of you?
Look at your fingers, your left hand,
where you once guarded that ring of a love,
a love you so claimed to have for my mother.
Now replaced by a prayer.
The watch on your wrist,
frozen on the time that you left,
father I am your son,
look at me father of mine,
for I am you in the mirror,
I understand and feel your pain;
I feel your misery,
your sadness, and your resentment.


Oh father of mine, what has been of you?
It's been seventeen years,
many things have happened since yesterday,
I'm no longer the child that saw you hitting your own wife;
I am no longer the child you ceased loving.
I don't hate you, father of mine,
because you and I are so different
yet so alike.
Father I am your son,
but you are not my father.

And as the curtain comes down,
and my show comes to an end;
as my unstrung ukulele finishes its last vibrato,
and with my eyes closed I can hear the sole spectator applauding.

I walk away covered by the smoke from my cigarette.
I exit the platform as the last candle remaining drowns on its own melted wax,
descending to the open arms of the bartender,
the wisest man one could ever meet, anyone's best friend.
He receives me with a welcoming smile, and without opening my lips he pours me my preferred nectar, awaiting for me to tell him my miseries for the small price of my weekly earnings.

Then it hits me, just as that candle burned out,
so have I, I have picked enough tulips to know that heaven has stood still long enough for me to make my way upstairs.
So I grab my instrument, light up another cigarette, and walk out the door,
to receive my sole spectator with open arms.