Midnight Dancer from Saigon

The sun goes high beyond the roofs as it’s the time for a morning soup.
When we look down, we hear the sounds of robin’s chirps, dancing in groups.
“Midnatt iskrem. Dans, dans med meg! Midnatt iskrem. Dans, dans med meg!”
But the guy sleeps in. He won’t wake up. Tears on his chin, heavier than they look.
Yes, he’s tired.

He misses the times where they walked through the silence hand in hand
Never dreamin’, never seein’ there would be an end
to the roads they walk, to the dreams they defend.
He misses the living feeling as he cuts himself again and again.
But he’s tired.

He talks and he talks until he is so blue in his face.
Barely mean anything. He can still make the clumsy race
against the broken heart, breaking down this antic maze.
He traces back the days as he drinks some more mates.
But he’s tired.

So.
She said she was done with the person she had run with
for four years strong. Could have been more to come.
So.
She ended it with tears which was his most feared.
Right from his eyes, no lie could cover.
Then.
They parted ways with pieces of hearts
fallen all over the road.
Then.
They started to feel when they grow older
it’d be over.

“Should it be over,
when they grow older.”

He has had enough but he wants more.
But he’s tired.

A replacement is found, a bottle in his mouth.
But he’s tired.

He broke down his knuckles but still, he wants ’em suffer.
Yes, he tried.

…

He walks through the line of thousands remain dead bodies.
He looks around in the massive ground of ugly baddies.
He wants to make it out. He starts making the sounds.
But no reply.
But he needs no reply.

He plays and plays one same song over and over.
The streets are now his amphitheater.
The front rows are full of sacks and pebbles.
But a violinist lives a violinist
until the days he has are over.

Demure and bodacious. A forlorn melody.