These days my life seems somehow like a tired old cliché, a bad movie scene that just goes on and on with dialogue like "It's so sad how fast time slips away" or "You never really miss them until they're gone". Funny how these old clichés come true; I never thought I'd miss him, but I do.
My father died in Summer, and all he left behind were little scraps of paper, little scraps of rhyme. I read them and felt something inside me break, and angrily cried out "Too late, too late!" Surely there must be something better? Surely there must be something better?
He and I were always strangers, searching for someone; I was looking for a hero, and he a friend. So while I searched for my father, he was looking for his son; and strangers we remained until the end. But the man who wrote his heart into those rhymes, I know he could have been a good friend of mine.
My father died in Summer, and all he left behind were little scraps of paper, little scraps of rhyme. I read them and felt something inside me break, and angrily cried out "Too late, too late!" Surely there must be something better? Surely there must be something better?
So I sit here where he lived and died as the ghosts around me weave, and the evening shadows lengthen on the wall. And in this dark and empty room, it's easy to believe that he never lived at all; but the little scraps of paper in my hand prove he lived for me - the father and the man.
My father died in Summer, and all he left behind were little scraps of paper, little scraps of rhyme. I read them and felt something inside me break, and angrily cried out "Too late, too late!" Surely there must be something better? Surely there must be something better?Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
