A seagull frames the planes crossing the sky.
The kids-a-playing, waves-a-rolling, breeze is floating by.
Because people that you don't know can't exist.
You tried to think about it but it slips between your fingertips. 

You see lack of logic in a child.
Climbing up in spaces which will leave them stranded way too high.
There's just no way that them people can exist.
That plane supposedly contains three hundred different consciouses.

A cuckoo waits.
For the warmer days.
To place his egg in a nest.
A cuckoo knows,
What the best birds know.
What the others think to themselves.

A malady, a crosshair on your eyes.
The cuckoo steals some egg to eat, he's unaware of passers by.
You know how much each thing can mean to you.
Well every glint of light in eyes, shines filled with others like that too.

The sun is finally spending some time.
In our particular region of this earth that sits underneath sky. 
There's just no way anyone else exists.
You try to bring it up but those other people, they do insist. 

A cuckoo waits.
For the warmer days.
To place his egg in a nest.
A cuckoo knows,
What the best birds know.
What the others think to themselves.



Cuckoo

We are the music makers. We are the dreamers of dreams.





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