The pale morning will sing of our forgotten things,
Left in hostel rooms,
reservations made for 3.

We sat amongst the rooftops of Prague,
while the city reached for it's sky
and scraped the clouds
and strained it's structure,
built on top of itself,
overflowing with countless nameless people from it's brims.

And we sat amongst the rooftops.

Watching the sun change it's mood,
Watching as it tired from it's burning persistence,
Watching it paint the sky with it's own paradox,
Blue to pink to purple to dead.
The solar system above
reflecting the solar system of the city.
The way the warm nights allowed us to finally breathe.

And we sat amongst the rooftops.

Repairing the damage of the strain on our souls,
Too young to attempt to take on the world,
too old to walk the beaten hometown streets for yet another summer.

Starving,
exhilarated,
no cash in our pockets but feeling richer than queens.
We tracked the route on a torn map we stole and defaced from the school library,
on which we had planned our freedom,
running hand in hand from the chaos of our mundane
plotted out our new testiments, our own brand new stories,
our old lives could not see
or touch
or ruin this

for this was ours only.

And we sat amongst the rooftops.

Drowning in life.

And listened to this song.

Because nothing else would quite capture the moment as precisely
As an acoustic lions roar.