The shiny, glossy shoes you wear to go outside,
and show the world how shiny, glossy your feel.
They are the shoes others will use,
to walk a mile in your life.

However bumpy, however ***** the road,
they won't feel the bumps and dirt,
wearing your glossy, shiny shoes.

Those old, everyday sneakers, they're not that bad,
the inside, shaped to your feet, years after years,
the outside a bit scarred, a bit battered.

Lend them, too, for a mile or two,
so all can feel how strong are your fee

At the end of the show
After the final theme, there is another song
For nobody to hear but the ones expecting
there will be something else
After the last flicker
of the projector's light

As the music fades out, the screen is turning blank
Nothing is left but eyes, locked into a last gaze

At the end of the show
After the ending theme, a song plays for no one
Two voices, harmonies still ringing in my ears
Slightly out of tempo
Chords on the minor scale
Stop before the chorus

As the music fades out, the screen is turning blank
Nothing's left but the room, and the ghost of a tune

As the music fades out, it's the end of the show
But the show must go on,
but the show must go on.

There are some evenings…

You just happen to tilt you head back and dusk is already right in front of your face.

Sometimes it’s just you, sometimes, some dude taps on your shoulder and while pointing straight upward he goes “Hey…look at that!”

And of course you’re gonna look, ‘cause what’s to see is just not real.

The sun is suddenly more than a big ball of flaming gas, the clouds more than some vapor. This red hot blood spread across the sky seems to come right from your veins.

You gaze into this huge scenery and you realize that it’s taking everything away. No more endless commute to your office, no more ******* for your missing pencil sharpener, no more reports, boss, todesangst… ****… for what it’s worth girls don’t even have ***** anymore.
Right that moment, it’s all burning along with the clouds and slowly sinking.

Then you just have enough time to blink twice and it’s dark already. Daddy Sun is gone to his other family.

You’re still there though, staring at nothing, feeling your existential mess creep back up your spine, cramped between the pencil sharpener and some girl’s *****.

What are you supposed to do then?

You’ve just been the enlightened Zen monk from the movie for a full minute, and now papa’s gone home, you’re back to your old whiny self. **** it up.

How are you supposed to return to your everyday’s plasma screen craving and internet **** when you feel you’ve just been dumped by the Sky itself?

I mean… how are you supposed to survive a sunset?

I want to talk of war
   Of the horror
         Of every stain in the mirror
               Stains of ichor, blood and tar

I want to talk of pain
   Of the manner
         Its infusion makes me cower
              This time, next time, and then again

I want to talk of fear
   Of ice and gale
         Of hope and rapture - how they fail
                                As I do so, see how I sneer

As your eyes widen
As your ears shut
As you mouth opens

                                     To retort:
                                     All the beauty in the world
                                     Is all around to be taken
                                     Life too short!
                                     Wake up, and then
                                     witness marvels of all sorts!

I do not want
  to speak of your marvels
                  you are the one who buried them

And as you flaunt
         beauty as your anthem
                      You are still holding the shovel

While wispy swirls
    silently swept the air.
slowly smoldering,
    vainly vanishing
blown at one end,
    and fire in its hair
A cigarette
    has stopped smoking.

There was in a country of old
A mighty giant, strong and bold
His feet, bigger than two big dogs
His fingers strong like wooden logs

High up in the mountain, I'm told
Away from the streets and the crowd
In his dark cave he dwelt alone
Feared by all, and fearing none

People trembled at his mere sight
Children, women and men alike
What a big arm, what a great roar!
And what a pride in his furor!

So you must say, he was happy
What is the point of my story?
I shall thus tell you a secret
The tall, tall fellow never slept

He would sometime give it a try
And although he'd never known why
His eyes shut in the depth of night
He'd give it up, not feeling right

But then one day, an ant, curious
Seeing him angry and bilious
Wondered " Golly, what's up in here?"
And climbed all the way to his ear

Feeling an itch, the giant twitched
And threatened "Out! You little witch!"
But the ant crept deeper inside
Whispering "Let's see what you hide"

"Do not look there, minuscule you!
It's not for ants to look into!"
Replied he in an angry slur
But she begged him "Please hear my word"

"For what I see, under your bulk
The very thing that makes you sulk
Depriving you of your slumbers
Is that you frighten great number

Truth to be told, your heart is sweet
But you're hiding in your retreat
For if you scare off more than few
You fear them more than they fear you!"

There was in a country of old
A mighty giant, strong and bold
His feet, bigger than two big dogs
His fingers strong like wooden logs

You will perhaps think it's fancy
'Cause his best friend is an ant, see.
And all the people from the town
Come to visit him in his home

But not at night, of after meals
They wouldn't dare disturb the dreams
Of a mighty giant's mighty sleep!

If I'd know today
Would be the day
That I lost you

The day all my fear
And all my doubts
Came to be true

I would have prayed
I would have said
It's not too late

Now that light has dimmed and music has lost its color
Hopes of yesterday feel like a dream I'm longing for

You were my home
In a life already too big for two
Here all alone
It's exile, to be far from you
You were my home

Morning will soon come
What will become
Of tomorrow?

Like a vagabond
I'll walk beyond
Lands and sorrow

Follow the sun
And if I burn
Let it be so

It is said that the man,
                                      not the gun,
                                                          kills.­
With a gun in your hand,
                                         you're no man,
                                                            ­    but a child.
                                          A child
                                                      who kills.