His heart sinks, drowning in memories and the nauseating stench of exhaust fumes. Back when he knew that the wind was made by the trees waving their leaves. Before he was pressed in a form that he never fit in, back before they crushed all his dreams. Before he put himself in that seat. Keep the engine running and the windows rolled up and the doors closed. Give up. In his dreams he still flies kites, and he’s still riding his bike, oblivious of the worries of the world, but he’s already on the road that led him to this garage where exhaust fumes stop his heart. In his dreams he still flies kites in the light of faded days. In his dreams he rides his bike, but all the streets have changed their faces, and he wonders: When did he choose the path that led him to his demise?
Гуру Песен