A sweet rain is crossing my street,
Whispers of pain make my spirit bleed,
Voices in my head, whispers I hear:
Open it, open it, maybe it's your dear,
That wrote you a message,
That sent you a sign,
You should open it before even dine.
I look at my wet hand, holding that thing,
That burns like the fire in hell,
And then swing,
To the corner where a sad beggar stands,
Glanced him in the eyes: Open your hands,
I say to the old man,
He smiles, and his thought flies to money,
I see that little sparkle, and I think it's funny,
That I'm trying to throw all my memories away,
To a beggar that can't even say
How happines feels like, today.
He sees that my hands are shakeing so bad,
Raise his shoulders and asks: Are you sad?
At the sound of his warm voice i feel dizzy,
Start trembeling, and cry - No, I'm just busy,
To busy to see that grass grows so quick,
To busy to feel the warmth of the sun,
To busy to see that others are sick,
To busy to notice what others call fun...
The old man puts his hand upon my fist,
What are you holding here? He looks at my wrist,
It's the last gift I have from my lover,
I want you to have it! I need to undercover
The signs of pain from the past.
And you think that will last?
Says the old man, smiling under his beard...
Go home, put your gift in place,
Where you can see it well,
Cause memories are the only one that chase
And can give confort when there's no one to tell
You that everything will be like yesterday.
I listened to the old man, and thought he was wise,
Put the gift in my pocket, what a surprise...
The gift that i thought was the last memory of my lover,
Turned into the advise of a beggar undercover...