Untitled Song

That man who never sleeps does not admit mistakes

That man who never wakes up dreams his life away

(A masterpiece still unnamed)

Refrains from dissonant sounds (it's always a laboring)

Playing the conductor of his own perfect symphony

But always a string seems to mistune from the orchestra

He needs to arrange it all

So he tunes his life in a key so bright

But he can never understand that in score of sky

The storms are notes that must be also played

Keeps on the choir, walking by nameless chords

(Life is really strange: You hear it but can't name

This untitled song)

His voice was hesitant and colourless

As in those who hope for nothing

Because it’s perfectly useless to hope

The same choked voice, as if a tight rope

Wounded around his throat

As he goes time remains quiet (it doesn't care if you rush by

It gets along with every beat you try

It conforms the pace you trace)

Will that man speed up?

Will he stop? Will he get the final applause now?

Even though they're born in every yard

That man is hiding thorns

(If people see them, what will they say?)

So he tunes his life in a key so bright

But he can never understand that in score of sky

The storms are notes that must be also played

Keeps on the choir until the last chord sounds

But by now he can't hear himself

The loud crowd is in the way

(Life is as strange as an untitled song)