It could have been so different, imagine.
They’d walk on shores contently, holding hands.
The wind would sing a song, so soft and gently,
The smells reminding hearts of magic lands.
It could have been that we were still together.
It could have been - it never gotten cold.
The orange sun could still predict the weather.
In mirrors, we would watch us grow old.
It’s dark again; it’s blue and unfamiliar.
The hearts grew cold, and hands have lost the touch.
I often wonder, was it just my dreaming,
Or did I want a little bit too much?
v2
6/18/03
Dream of a Tropical Shell
© Copyright: Vica V., 2003
Свидетельство о публикации №103061801523
Свидетельство о публикации №103061801523
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