About an abandoned city,
where the wind is the only inhabitant,
knocking on windows and singing
through the empty streets.

We sing and that's how

we make a very good time --


out of the waiting.

I sing, cautiously,

just to myself, still without --


anyone hearing.

Vanity lights.
Production sets.
Heat on high.
Dim lit.
Fame is all in your head.

Truffles in the air.
Wine stained carpets.
Knife over the bed.
Lipstick bruises.
The low numbers aren't fair.

A throbbing migraine or two.
Smoke envelopes the halls.
Hushhh, play another lullaby.
Of course not all dreams come true.
There'll always be a new one, more than you.

Maybe later it's going to get better
Maybe later it's going to be fi-ine

Maybe later it's going to get better
Maybe later it's going to be fine...

Dancing at the equilibrium
Trying to fulfill the balance
Of the night
Of the night
Of the night....

Singing a mantra

together, sounds full of life --


in - out of ourselves.

The work is hard, but

every night we sing away --


all our tiredness.

Summerlight sunflight—
Singsonging songbirds singing,    
Winging blue heaven.