Your heart rests in the palm of your father's sacrifice.
Your breath rests in the nostalgic wind that passes by him
When he remembers his past and reflects on your future.
Your colours run down the lines of your mother's smile,
Whenever she raises her hands to the sky,
Praying for you and a little more time,
Because she left her beating heart back home,
To become foreign and unknown only so you could grow.
Their complexions are painted with fatigue,
Because when you're sound asleep,
they run toward bordered walls,
so that when you wake up in the morning,
There will be open doors at your feet.
When a nostalgic wind passes by them,
They'll tell you stories of their childhood,
And they'll leave each word,
With a taste of reminiscence,
A hint of stolen years reflected in the teardrops,
That rest in the corner of their eyes,
And yet when they look towards you,
In seconds your reflection overshadows everything they once used to dream.
All for you...
Jul 22, 2020
Jul 22, 2020 at 2:34 PM UTC
Your heart rests in the palm of your father's sacrifice.
Your breath rests in the nostalgic wind that passes by him
When he remembers his past and reflects on your future.
Your colours run down the lines of your mother's smile,
Whenever she raises her hands to the sky,
Praying for you and a little more time,
Because she left her beating heart back home,
To become foreign and unknown only so you could grow.
Their complexions are painted with fatigue,
Because when you're sound asleep,
they run toward bordered walls,
so that when you wake up in the morning,
There will be open doors at your feet.
When a nostalgic wind passes by them,
They'll tell you stories of their childhood,
And they'll leave each word,
With a taste of reminiscence,
A hint of stolen years reflected in the teardrops,
That rest in the corner of their eyes,
And yet when they look towards you,
In seconds your reflection overshadows everything they once used to dream.
All for you...