Irish Stew Of Sindidun

Dream Shelf

Winter in your coats never seems to cease
They pictured you in summer, and you think you felt the heat
Having all your favorite colors while advertising smiles
But what's the favorite color of the high blue sky?

Putting words in your mouth, they can say what they want
You're convinced that is true, while they shackle your soul
With pockets full of money, you don't need the Sun to shine
You're a trunk of a dead-tree, but you think you're really fine

And hanging on a dark road
I always see the light
Carrying dreams in empty pockets
With no home to rest tonight
I drink to shiver sadness
With broken wings to fly
So they can call me drunken bastard
But my heart and soul they cannot deny

Seven days a week you don't have time to think:
Are you heading for tomorrow? Have your eyes lost their gleam?
Is the smile on your face as happy as it seems?
Does your last tear rest on forgotten shelf of dreams?

Author: Bojan Petrović