going up the white church hill
there is so much to be overviewed
below in the valley of dying stars
for our hearts now full of grass
our heads are no more stuffed with straw
brains moistured with cherished rain
church bell rings and we’re coming to the entrance door
walking down Highbourne avenue
all buildings covered in silver-golden glaze
renaissance skies gazing dreamily
the guardians of knowledge leaning peacefully
in their chairs and follow saying sleepy ‘bye’
but can we stay for just a little while?
sorry but no, we are closed and you are supposed to leave
and you made more mistakes
than the times when you tried
and you wanted to make an escape
but didn’t know where or why
thinking of what’s left in the past
there isn’t much to be understood
with silly memory that alters things
or silly sentiments for silly youth
nothing is hidden behind this tree
nothing is written on its bark
we might not have left our marks in history
but we have left them in each other
we have left them in each other
nothing is hidden behind this tree
nothing is written on its bark
we might not have left any mark on history
but we have left it in each other
yes, we have left it in each other
