feeling rather sorry for a man I know,




the world he holds in trembling hands is asking where to go.




And as he stares out at me from the mirrored wall,




I see that he is trying to cry, but the tears they will not fall.

His life is passing by behind his tired eyes,




Like the colours in a January sky.




Useless it is the question things concerning the past,




it seems so very obvious that nothing at all can last.




And just as sure as tomorrow will soon be yesterday,




And love is such a small word for something that is so vast,




but in it lies the future, the present and the past.




And speaking now of changes, I sometimes feel the fear,




that the reason for the meaning will even disappear.