Autor: Andreas Hollinek (with some help from ChatGPT)

Foto © Andreas Hollinek
I waited in the station with a backpack full of pain,
many lights were shining, but no headlights of a train.
The preacher told me: 'his', the banker answered: 'mine',
but time just keeps on rolling like a runaway line.
The silence stretches thin, like a whisper made of dust,
a promise seems to whisper in a cradle built of rust.
You can chase the stars with reason, you can curse it on a wall,
but fate won’t sign a treaty, and it won’t reward us all.
I wrote a note to future, but my message disappeared.
The future keeps complaining what the past often feared.
We should ask the moon for mercy, we should ask the breeze for time,
but the inevitable is: it is a runaway line.
The waiting never ends, it circles around the bend,
like a dog that hears his echoes in a world that pretends.
You can measure every moment, paint it on a wall,
but time needs no reason, and it won’t explain at all.
The lovers lost their language, the poets lost their pen,
the clocks will stop at midnight, will they ever start again?
There’s a whisper in the alley, there’s a tremble in the night,
And waiting makes you wonder if the wrong will turn out right.
The waiting never ends, it circles around the bend,
like a prayer without a sermon or a truth you can’t defend.
You can gamble with the ages, you can beg or you can crawl,
But time don’t take no prisoners, and it won’t return your call.

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