All those balloons we set to the sky,
messages that we lose hold of, and die.
Your life on the windowsill next to my eye,
lift my head in the morning and it's you I watch cry.
The spring is not welcome in a house of stone,
each day the door aches a sorrowful moan,
the hinges would like to be on their own.
Reminiscent of generations that have been overthrown.
Your eyes used to be soft but now they can't see,
our hair rotted and grey; turning like the sea.
And through all this time your love has set free
the notion of knowing you still mean the world to me.
