Текст: Peter Von Poehl. May Day. Forgotten Garden.

By the time he left the city,
Through restless streets
Already led astray,
A promise faded north-side of the bridge;
All these forgotten figures
Carried in his chest
He felt the south wind on his shadow,
As the sloping landscape
Picked up speed.
Following directions logically,
His old familiar voices disagreed.
He kept staring out the window,
Past the furrows and the grooves below,
Way beyond a keen mind,
And a broken dream
That a child had left behind.
He took the small roads after midnight.
A hand above him clearly drew his flight,
The sound of changes devilling his soul;
It was clear as daylight
That he was nowhere near his goal.
He kept staring out the window,
Past the furrows and the grooves below,
Way beyond a keen mind,
And a broken dream
That a child had left behind.
He tied a string around his finger.
Captured by the sidetracks on parade,
He left an urge to break
Their constant waves;
In this forgotten garden,
Nothing can be saved.

(Merci a Leon DUONER pour cettes paroles)