... the glass from the mirror.
And I spoke to the judge, I said
"I’ll write no more songs, my
voice is now weak, there’s
something terribly wrong.
I cannot raise my pen, nor
utter a word, it does not hear
my voice. I cannot be heard."
And the judge looked down with
a fist made of gold, his eyes so grey
his breath so cold. He picked up my
pen dashed it down to the floor
saying "your time is done, you’ll
not write anymore, your time is
done, you can’t write anymore."
The truth is a mirror, it sees
what I see. It reflects an image
which cannot be me. It cannot be
my face trapped there in the glass,
the glass is mistaken, the years have
not passed. But the song has no
title, so must be my last.
Take the glass from the mirror, the
song from the air, the colour of autumn,
the Past from my care, the cries of the
children who for ever will die, the dark
from the night, and the light from the
I came with no purpose. I leave full of
doubt. No one could tell me what life
was about. There are so many lies
hidden between every line. Each one
was yours, and none of them mine.
For I am traveller I just passed this way.
When I arrived I knew I could not
stay. You balance the future on the
end of your pen, but lies are so easy
and truth cannot win.