|
. |
|
Finally the moment's |
|
Come and here we stand |
|
And all the words have gone |
|
Along with all the plans |
|
And though the hands |
|
Are surely moving on the clock |
|
For us, this moment |
|
Time itself has stopped |
|
Our early-morning eyes |
|
Still feel a little sore |
|
And bodies sweetly aching |
|
From the night before |
|
I can feel |
|
The cold platform through my shoes |
|
There must be someting to be said |
|
But what's the use? |
|
The wind picks up some paper |
|
Blows it past our feet |
|
We watch it grateful |
|
That our eyes don't have to meet |
|
A screaming whistle rips the air |
|
And takes away |
|
The last seconds we have shared |
|
And still photographs |
|
The train begins its run |
|
And suddenly all the words |
|
I should have said had come |
|
Someone touches me |
|
And asks me for a light |
|
And wonders if |
|
I'm feeling quite alright |
|
And I say yes... |
|
On another platform there's a train |
|
The same old scene is to be shot again |
|
The wind picks up some paper |
|
And with it I shall ride |
|
Out through the door marked exit |
|
Into the world ouside |
|
. |
