At five-fifteen a clock rang,
one morning at the end of summer.
in six and ten the train was moving
from a platform at the end of the world
That train was waiting for me.
Next to my feet the dog was asleep,
I said quietly to him, hey, run away from there!
I opened the door, went out the porch
where the white geranium had blossomed.
I thought, maybe this is that home.
She didn't hear me, peacefully dreaming of her fans,
and candles, and lace.
She dreamed the days, quiet and gentle
like black and white piano keys
But in life, all alone in the world
seeking for salvation in minuet.
I went down on the dusty road
like a thief, slowly and quietly
I was not that knight for her
although people are saying that I am Don Quixote
but it is quite another thing.
She was a star, she was the song
Every day different, but yet allways the same,
dreamed of the good old days
and her Chopin, and Bach, and List
Maybe she'll find now, in this cruel world, her own peace in minuet.
Since then passed century or two
She rarely calls me, sends some letter,
and who knows where she is now, I don't want her to know
how I long for the far March
When I saw her for the first time.
She was a star, she was the song
Every day different, but yet allways the same,
dreamed of the good old days
and her Chopin, and Bach, and List
Maybe she'll find now, in this cruel world, her own peace in minuet.
I am still wandering, where the road ends,
Many of the provincial railways remember me,
Hidden by dark and cheap taverns,
for me nights are sometimes dense and long.
then I am disappearing
in my own world, and minuet
and minuet