He sits in deep thoughts in rememberable of time and once crowded streets. In a city that was tough and gentle and love that had a gentle touch.

He has no spark left, he sings to himself and runs unnoticed except for his gait. There are no more fantasies expected in reality, just surviving will have to cut it.

No more sparkly dreams

No more wondering when

No more stories about the train and the riders

No more songs about the last time

He is sitting there, no light in his eyes

Who stole it or did he sell it to the man living on the border line by the river Diablo?

That tall man with the crooked conscience who will never learn how to live true… It’s sad when you really think about it but who has time or energy to think anymore.

These days near the end, these days if atonement, near this new beginning, will we ever truly comprehend or will it be dark once the sun sets…. For the final time and the dirt is thrown over the oak where no roses grow.

The man he grins but it’s far from a smile. He knows all ends are simply beginnings, so he grins and now it feels like a velvety smile.

He is thinking about that place, where the birds always sing, where the river water is clean, the sky is always blue and the dusk clouds are red. Where we are given dreams and time, love and touch, tough and gentle… Gentle touch.