Empty pockets and a bag full of dreams
This is the odd painter, who used to frequent here
All knew him, they knew about it that
He had sold his soul for the world of a hundred brushes
He didn't trust in people and maybe not in himself as well
He experienced too much pain, he shed too many tears
Fed with scorn and a thrown penny
He often sat here, he wanted to sell some pictures
Who will buy at least one today?
You didn't see, you turn left, want already to go
But it may be that when you see right at them
You'll find your frailty and the shine of dreaming
Who knows?
He changed his life for a delirious dream
Losing his truth and his meaning on the way
To dare finally and knock there
Where he's now painting eternal time with white paint
Who will buy at least one today
You didn't see, you turn left, want already to go
But it may be that when you see right at them
You'll find your frailty and the shine of dreaming
Who knows?