This is the story of life. The practise in art is an ode to the artists who still remember how it should be That’s how we were sitting under the bridge Together around the fire, the troubadours were singing the song of some adventure We just arrived, were allowed like one of them They showed me respect, hand on the heart, head bended I know when you should show respect I know for sure, a company like this won’t return Don’t come back again It were the men from here, at the same time the men from everywhere Then they asked me who I said I’m “Tourist” (it’s the name of the rapper), what about you? I have “Kowlier” (Other singer in the song) here and the whole crew You may know us, we are the team of the town He looked up, Smile, felt the similarity Living ambitious, busy like me Unspoken term, there’s a song in here And that’s how we found each other in song and melody (CHORUS): We can go, We can stand Over fields, over roads Even through marrow and bone Under skin, under stone We’re wanderers who lost the way All the night walking everywhere With talking and stories Around the fires, in the sporthalls Shut the lights and the boxes Close everything and fast More fire, because the musicians are back Ballads in the street, songs of course, Banjo, Bagpipes. Another guy was there with a flute Sang loud, Sang a lot A smile, a tear, we meant it every time Melancholia about the districts where we lived as childs If it was about “the Seefhoek”, I would come in with stories about this town Older than the streets The beautiful eyes of a woman who once seduced us. About the misery from this country till Africa. From the politics and malaise Till the voters and headache Everything is important Heroes of the country, from the suburbs till “Kiel South” Touching beautiful memories…It’s all about creatings souvenirs
CHORUS
Purely of emotion, the song of freedom Not the liberal kind, but the freedom of the animals in the jungle Here under the bridge, simplicity Eye for nature, physics. He simply asked me, where else can I find the soul of things? Is there still the fire of the blacksmith, I have never seen an assembly line blink with pride Meaning, sense, searching alot, finding nothing Sigh He looked in my eyes and he nodded We troubadours were made to sing Composing creates memories Aslong as the crazy people don’t come chase us away tomorrow.. The river turned red, a strange feeling about revenge Wake up from a dream or was it really too blurry? It are my collegues I don’t care where we come from, we have a story The rest will come by itself