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The Last Song
 It
is a building, black, with yellow walls,
With moist and gray windows,
That's where I wore my youth away,
And lived my life in sadness.
With empty hands I fleshed the gray horizon,
Trying to escape from it all.
I traveled to far away lands looking through that window,
The flowers blooming in the spring and dying in winter.
And now that wind has come to whip the leaveless trees. 
And black clouds slowly flow,
The storm will come and hit the naked land,
And leave me cold and empty.
But will I ever have the luck
To go and lie some evening,
On the green shores of my country?
And sweetly sleep the sleep of innocents?
And hear the song of robins,
Who talk so sweetly about the golden dream? 
And see the sun rising wet among blue waves?
To see it bloody at noon,
And burned away at sundown?
But will I ever have the luck,
To go and lie some evening,
On the green shores of my country?
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I'll see the flowers of spring,
The stars of summer sky,
And when the moon comes to my feet,
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I'll close
my eyes, and die.
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© 2000 George Pararas-Carayannis
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