You were searching for me in the uncharted life, one before last,
Recognizing my home on the crossroads of empty places.
Our years marched by in endless formations of the days now past.
On the pavers of the minor scales having left no traces.
I am writing a letter to you, under each line there are chords.
I will paste it on the back pages of the evening gazettes.
You will read it, and perhaps, this often unjustifiably harsh world
Will smile and suddenly let us take off into the sunset.
I will open my whole heart to you, like the doors of a biplane.
You’ll, lacy stockinged, slip from the cover of Playboy.
To Bashō's rhymes, we shall fly underneath the nirvana's heaven,
And laugh carefree, endlessly admiring ourselves in our joy.
You were searching for me in the uncharted life, one before last,
Recognizing my home on the crossroads of empty places.
Our years marched by in the endless formations of days now past.
On the pavers of the minor scales having left no traces.