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Waiting for the silent men |
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watching the solar nights |
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while in these mornings |
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sparkling drops of young spears |
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are falling from the trees... |
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In the boulevard of light |
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In the boulevard of light. |
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Fresh waters and fountains |
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reappearing in the quiet zones |
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where is possible to rest |
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laying on the blue bed |
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at the edge of heaven. |
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And if in the night |
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I cannot see anymore flights |
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I can hear some distant screams |
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lost in the great obscurity; |
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when fog is turning back |
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from the front of a black war |
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I am walkig near that river |
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that leads me through the rain |
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as the gates of the wasted bridge... |
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as the gates of the wasted bridge... |
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Night of echoes, missing faces |
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missing steps of missing men |
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in a dream of grey old shadows |
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smoking cigarettes at last |
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on the bridge of broken leaves. |
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Smoking cigarettes with ghosts |
|
on the bridge of broken leaves. |
