In the soul of the world there’s life, death and love,
pieces of grief, beauty and mystery.
Things we never get the chance to see,
these things he tried to find.
He tried to fly, but his wings couldn’t hold the force of despair,
He tried to look ahead, but his eyes couldn’t resist to turn around,
To find her face, one last time,
to give a name to anonymity.

What are your eyes allowed to see?
What are your desires supposed to be?
Is there any purpose in your misery?
When you get over,
perhaps you’ll see what the sky has to offer,
the sun will always follow you,
but will you notice?
Is there a way out now?
Too late to find peace, too late to clear your guilt.
Wait until it’s over.

Why can’t he acknowledge the source of all his grief?
Why he doesn’t belong anywhere,
why he lost himself since long ago, searching.
Searching for an idea, a path he can’t take.
Why can’t he be like the flying birds?
Why does he keep falling to the ground?
Why does he make deals that he can’t keep?
Why can’t he know the end of the dream?
Why didn’t he take her hand?
Does he dream or does he rave?

He has come unstuck in time,
music has turned into silence,
silence has become sadness,
sadness, and an unbearable pain,
an awful sound,
a shining light that tells you
that this thing we call love,
is never over.