8 acessos
In the garden, in the park, on a bench, I sit
A newspaper floats on the breeze of this late summer
It is coming my way, I patiently wait
I see the sign, it's on the road and I think it's crazy
In the garden, of the park, on a bench, I watch
The sandy feet of the children
Pearls of sweat run across their beautiful faces
You see the sign, it's on the road, but I think you're crazy
You are, you are the sign of my unrelief
As I easily get inner contact with myself
I notice distress grabbing for my throat
It is time to reach out to find something that isn't there
You see the signs, they're on the road, but I think it's crazy
You are, you are the sign of my unrelief