It is not the first time
that I have walked past that room,
and I see you there.
He plays you his best songs,
while he waits.
I stop and I listen,
it always makes me think
of someone I used to know,
of somewhere I used to go.
Now, inside that room
are bloodshot eyes,
and a sore throat.
There sits a man
who can tell you stories
as you want to hear them.
Take you back, and off the tracks
of life and the way they did occur.
So I walk inside and touch your hair.
I breath in whatever smoke that is not there.
I listen to the last notes that he plays,
before he stops and walks away.
Now, inside that room
are bloodshot eyes.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem