Old, and barely able,
he walks out to the busy corner,
where he buys his daily bread,
wondering where the hell these thoughts
come from that are dancing in his head.
He looks around and doesn’t see
the lady with the mandolin,
that plays the songs he likes to sing,
which she brought from a place he’s never seen.
And though the morning sun has filled
the day with light and warmth,
he’s cold and suffers ‘cause he can’t explain
the lonely feelings that he cannot seem to shake.
Loneliness is not a symptom,
it’s a curse that’s so hard to explain,
for no one really seems to know,
and few can understand the pain.
Everybody’s lonely mornings
are as different as are flakes of snow,
Singular and so precise,
and will never let you go.
And he knows that the future threatens
to be not so very far away,
He still forces his voice to comply,
And tells his children he’s okay:

“I’m only dreaming of a smile,
Yes, for one of those, I’d walk a million miles,
But they’re very hard to find,
And I just haven’t the time…”

He takes his loaf of bread and
walks across the park towards home,
where he sees a group of children playing in the sun.
They remind him of when he was young
and of the days when smiles were not a million miles away.
And for a second in his head he sees the images of long lost friends,
he sees himself in happy times, his true love by his side,
and holding hands they’d listen to their children sing their songs
and he could proudly say…

“I am the happiest of men,
I find golden rays of light,
even in the pouring rain.
With you I will always stay,
and you will never lose your way,
for I will always be your compass,
till we reach the end of days…”

Alone he finds his way back home
to a dark and dusty room
where ghosts do roam.
And the thoughts inside his head are shouting, reminding him,
repeating loudly:

“You’re useless now and soon you will be dead.
The life that you remember is just pictures in your head.
And everyone that you have loved
has left this Earth, they’re far above,
while in the meantime you’re still down here and still struggling
with this meaningless existence so mundane.
Can you name someone that really cares?
No! You’ve no one anywhere! Though it’s a shame.”

And he sits down on the tattered couch,
His index finger to his mouth,
He silences the voices and replies:

“I know the children rarely call,
And I’ve gotten very old,
And I no longer have a loving hand to comfort
or to hold,
and I can’t find a refuge from the cold,
my God, how can I live another day”.

C.2020, Francisco Bravo Cabrera, 07 FEB 2020, Valencia, Spain

INSTAGRAM: @Francisco_Bravo_Cabrera

JaZzArt en Valencia: http://www.ArtPal.com/rfbravo1155

Piano Jazz con mi grupo AJA: http://www.cdbaby.com/cd/aja

THANKS!