Sunlight cast through the dust, through the window;
There can be beauty in the act of waking up.
In the movements of the old man's knuckles
As he kneads away at the freshly made dough,
Clouds of flour fill the air in the bakery down the road.
Hands breach through the comforting earth,
Amid rocks and roots in the confines of this garden,
And the wind continues it's quiet course.
Silence blankets the museum corridors,
A landscape framed by four corners;
Somewhere I've been, somewhere I could be.
The neighborhood rests at night,
Still and at peace;
All is alive and everything sleeps.
Amid rocks and roots in the confines of this garden,
And the wind continues it's quiet course.
Silence blankets the museum corridors,
A landscape framed by four corners;
Somewhere I've been, somewhere I could be.
The neighborhood rests at night,
Still and at peace;
All is alive and everything sleeps.
