Wasted Bridges

Waiting for the silent men

watching the solar nights

while in these mornings

sparkling drops of young spears

are falling from the trees...

In the boulevard of light

In the boulevard of light.

Fresh waters and fountains

reappearing in the quiet zones

where is possible to rest

laying on the blue bed

at the edge of heaven.

And if in the night

I cannot see anymore flights

I can hear some distant screams

lost in the great obscurity;

when fog is turning back

from the front of a black war

I am walkig near that river

that leads me through the rain

as the gates of the wasted bridge...

as the gates of the wasted bridge...

Night of echoes, missing faces

missing steps of missing men

in a dream of grey old shadows

smoking cigarettes at last

on the bridge of broken leaves.

Smoking cigarettes with ghosts

on the bridge of broken leaves.