A single line stretched on endless waves.
This voice of gifts and endless days.
Minds were faster than bullets back then.
Like a painter to canvas, a writer to pen.
He came with wisdom and circles of friends.
Danced the dance of mutters and grins.
Gave us all diamonds and lust.
Lost his fans and lost his trust.
The sometimes charming and youthful face.
A prince of love songs with such beautiful taste.
Can you tell the albums apart?
Not for those with simple hearts.
This mind was one of genius and flaws.
Then again in our own minds, aren't we all?
A friend, a lover, a musician at heart.
Someone who passed when he had done his part.
Colors transend with a voice that calls.
To be a king among corperate castle walls.
He did not give in to fame and forsight.
His was a true musicians fight.
And when it was said and all had been done.
All those around him remembered the fun.
The times, the people, the voice and the plea.
There will never be another Tim Buckley.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem