Whenever I pick my pen
To let my muddled thoughts flow,
Words fly helter skelter from my brain
Like a flock of sheep pursued by a lion.
'Repent, old man, and be born again'
So the clergyman said to Grandpa.
Grandpa with a frown on his wrinkly face replied.
'Well, my son, I will be born too many times,
The painful dreams of bitter realities.
High waves, low tide.
Yesterday's beauty, today's beast.
She sits in where her ilk are standing out
There are holes in my pocket because I patched yours
I gave youmy songs when you lost your voice
If love is a star I brought down the sky
I gave all my love, guess you wanted more.
I have received the keys; you gave them to me.
My heart was as you wanted it,
You could open and go as you pleased.
But now I have the keys. I had trouble opening the door
Weary lover with heavy eyes, call it a night.
Your sleepy smiles fade on your sleepy cheeks.
Close your eyes and open your dreams.
A silent slumber awakens the imagination with its noise.
To be there is to steal the beats of beautiful women's drums and find nowhere to play it.
To be there is to watch the sea lick the dimming sun to a sad finish.
To be there is to stand in the worn out shoes
Of dead men and cry the end of their lives.
The very first step of life
Essentially determines the strength of the last.
Though we plod with tears and sweat our way forward,
We ought not neglect our backs.
Not at first sight my views I show,
Neither is it with experience that these words flow;