It is the old average time,
from Poland, Denmark or Norway
the same, always:
desperate old moving bodies,
under cheap neon lights.
Sometimes I'm wondering
About what does mean: be Young

I see my dreams far away
inside of myself.
I don't have to do
nothing
just follow...
Dreams are like the sun,
They burn all.
Move on, move on, move on.
Your eyes are my past,
past it is gone.
I feel my dreams...
Sun, sun, sun.
Dreams, dreams, dreams,
They are all on fire.

I can know what
the weather
will be in New York.
I can know what the weather
will be in Tokyo
and Shanghai, in Moscow and Dubai.
But I go out and it is raining.
I have no umbrella,
my local forecast
told that must be sunny now.
So as the Forecast
can be wrong,
you have
to go out
to be sure,
to understand
things.
Like always
to be alive.

We descend stone steps
of a suspension bridge,
beyond a silent church
awaits for our feet.
In the sunny afternoon,
seagulls telling us
about faraway sky.
I hold your hand,
hoping it's true,
while our bodies stepping
on the cold beach.
The red mouth, of your soul
it is flesh, melted with
salt water.
Soon we will come back home,
in today's time,
far from laughter,
far from the perfumes of the canals
tangled with order,
by the disrupted human mind.
Two wives carry
in their words
yesteryear, in a just understandable
language.

You get close to me,
saying no word again,
walking out the door.
I remember our morning walks
and your hand close to mine.
Was september on a rainy day,
when we first met.
But I'll never see you again,
often think about it.
Maybe you was a dream,
come to visit me,
I close the eyes
in the darkest room,
forgetting my sorrow,
if you are near my cheeks.