Babe, just stop for a moment and see where we are now

We've managed to give up on this love somehow

Please tell me how it can be
That we had something beautiful, a whole future to see

When I looked into your eyes for the very first time

Angelic choirs sang
Shinto bells chimed

I've made the hue of your soul the national color of my world
And the irises of your eyes are like rainbows mirroring my skies
Don't tell me our love is like snow in Tropea
'Cause I can't bear this life if I never get to see ya

Our love is not an unlikely possibility, a forgotten idea
Our love is nothing like snow in Tropea

I only dream of kissing your soul under just any sky
I want to caress it all the time
The moment I met you I knew our hearts would intertwine

It's true it never snows in Tropea
But I don't care as long as I get to see ya

I won't feel the magic of this Christmas

Unless there is you
Unless there is us

I've made the hue of your soul the national color of my world
And the irises of your eyes are like rainbows mirroring my skies
Don't tell me our love is like snow in Tropea
'Cause I can't bear this life if I never get to see ya

Our love is not an unlikely possibility, a forgotten idea
Our love is nothing like snow in Tropea

Like Snow in Tropea

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Fantasmi Digitali (Soft-Pop)

After the Tunnel is a reflective Americana folk song about emergence, about the quiet moment when the dark stretch ends and the world opens back up.

Written by Lantern Path, the song is inspired by long drives through the mountains of western Pennsylvania, where narrow roads cut through steep hills and wooded valleys on the way from the city toward open country. It captures that familiar feeling of passing through shadow and suddenly finding light, space, and breath on the other side.

This version stays true to the heart of the original song, carried by an intimate acoustic arrangement and a restrained, conversational vocal. It’s not about rushing forward or celebrating arrival, it’s about the release that comes when the weight lifts and clarity returns.

Sometimes a place becomes a memory.
Sometimes a memory becomes a song.
And sometimes, right after the tunnel, you remember who you are.

Mental Picture

Jon Secada

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