| Thundering news hits me like a snowball
|
| Striking my face and shattering
|
| Covering me in a fine powder and mist
|
| And mixing in with my tears
|
| And I’m 57 but I could be 7 years old
|
| Cause I will never be able to
|
| Comprehend the expansiveness
|
| Of what I’ve just learned
|
| That you have disappeared
|
| You have been released
|
| You are flecks of light
|
| You are missed
|
| Somewhere, spinning round the sun
|
| Circling the moon
|
| Traveling through time
|
| You are missed
|
| Walking through unfamiliar streets
|
| And I’m shaking unfamiliar hands
|
| And I’m hearing unfamiliar laughs
|
| And lovely language I don’t understand
|
| It’s late October in Copenhagen
|
| The skies are grey, the snow is falling
|
| I see my breath outside, I’m freezing
|
| I’m motionless, I’m disbelieving
|
| That you have disappeared
|
| You have been released
|
| You are flecks of light
|
| You are missed
|
| Somewhere, spinning round the sun
|
| Circling the moon
|
| Traveling through time
|
| You are missed |