[written in Paris, France]
What we see today is not tomorrow,
wish for all of it to change,
for that which does not will fade...
at the first time,
it all seemed bright and new,
When we speak it is only of the past,
so put your thoughts in the future,
don't let your ways lay behind...
at the second time,
it is refreshing to be there again,
Why we let things become washed,
is a strange mystery to all,
since all can be polished anew...
at the third time,
the image is burned in you...
Where does the intrigue travel to,
follow it as much as possible,
never let go of what is the dream...
at the fourth time,
you yawn at its site,
Who we are can be who we will be,
or a cacoon for metamorphosis,
forever changing yet staying the same...
at the fifth time?