Boy/Old man

A boy,

A 80 years old piano,

Smoke,

Before his eyes,

In his soul.

What he does,

Doesn’t matter,

What he sings is the truth,

The ash falling on his old shoes,

It doesn’t matter,

All what matters,

Is that he’s playing the blues.

His hands,

(soiled with guild)

are old and rotten

But he still feels the first time

They touched a guitar

A soul,

Filled with rain,

His eyes,

All they see is the pain,

In his heart

What he does,

Doesn’t matter

What he sings is the truth,

It doesn’t matter,

All what matters,

Is that he’s playing the blues.

His eyes,

(blinded by the truth)

are old and discoloured

But they still see,

Your beaufull face

The world,

has come to an end.

Fire is screaming.

Time is behind.

His fingers,

Touching black and white,

It doesn’t matter.

All what matters,

Is that he’s playing the blues.

His brains,

(dying from anger)

are old, and have forgotten

But they still remember,

The times they were happy

Life’s a nightmare,

And death’ll wake him up.

What’s the sense of lieing,

If the sky is filled with lies.

What’s the sense of crying,

If the whole fuckin’ world cries.

His fingers

(broken by life)

are old and deceased

But they still feel,

The tears on his cheek

The smoke,

Destroying his body, saving his soul.

He sings,

What’s the matter of it all ?

Ó Mark Lotterman 2001