saw a girl on a train in a country I was leaving,
and she may have smiled at me, or that might be wishful thinking,
anyway, I won’t see her again,
and you can’t call a stranger a friend
on a street, in a town where I speak the language well enough to know
that I’m not home, and laugh at half the jokes, so I can tell
that I’ve been here before,
but that country’s not here anymore..
I was trying to be free, trying to be kind,
I’m just trying to be me, so I hope that you don’t mind
if I sing here on your street, in a language you don’t speak,
stalking poetry again, again..
and every gray apartment building’s just a giant concrete filing cabinet
for childhoods and family stories of people I don’t know at all,
and at any given moment surely someone must be feeling
every kind of human feeling somewhere in between those walls..
there’s a church on the square that they finally rebuilt
after the war, using stones that they sorted from the rubble,
now the old stone is black from the smoke,
while the new stone is yellow as gold,
underneath they’re both the same, pieced together, old and new,
in a town after the war everyone can see your wounds,
so I sing here on your street, in a language you don’t speak,
I’m stalking poetry again, again.. (repeat CH:1)