I wake before the sun,
Clock ticking like a drum,
Coffee’s cold before it’s poured,
Same scene I can't outrun.

Your words once lit the skies,
A sentence was my rise,
But silence grows like ivy now,
Across my hope’s sunrise.

6:30 comes, I hold my breath,
6:35 — still chasing death.
6:40 hums like static air,
And then the world just isn't fair…

6:42, where are you?
My heart still waits like it used to do.
6:42, still no sign,
Another day, no morning line.

Some love is made of flames,
Ours lived in typed remains.
Simple words at break of day,
Now haunt me like a name.

The years don’t pull me free,
Still check that screen at 6:43.
I dance, I laugh, I play the part,
But you're the rhythm in my heart.

6:50 breaks the spell again,
Another wound that has no end.
I scroll through ghosts and memories,
Still trapped in old routines...

6:42, where are you?
My heart still waits like it used to do.
6:42, still no sign,
Another day, no morning line.

I told myself, “you’ll heal with time,”
But clocks just lie, they never rhyme.
A single message, once so small,
Now holds the weight of all.

The seasons changed, the world spun fast,
But every dawn recalls the past.
No note, no smile, no calm hello —
Just time that moves too slow...

6:42, I still do,
Dance with shadows, dream of you.
6:42, you're still mine,
In every tick, in every line...

6:42

It’s noon, and the rain's falling wild and free,
First time in this city, no map for me,
Suitcase soaked, heartbeat on the run,
When a shadow called softly, "Come, come, come."

Old thin man, a flicker in his glance,
A secret taxi, a crazy chance,
Doubt in my bones, trust in the rain,
So I jumped in — and never felt the same.

Take me to Bernardinų gatve, secret taxi,
Wheels spinning dreams through the pouring city,
Take me to Bernardinų gatve, secret taxi,
Old town’s whisper calling me, set me free.

Slick streets spinning past in a liquid haze,
Stone and river, tangled in a daze,
Every turn a heartbeat, every light a sigh,
Old ghosts humming through the violet sky.

Past the bends and the broken stone,
Past songs of hearts I’ve never known,
Through heavy rain, through silver veils,
To the street where my own story sails.

Take me to Bernardinų gatve, secret taxi,
Wheels spinning dreams through the pouring city,
Take me to Bernardinų gatve, secret taxi,
Old town’s whisper calling me, set me free.

Silver rivers down the glass,
Mirrored skies and futures past,
I closed my eyes, I heard it say:
"You’re already home, you’re on your way."

Take me to Bernardinų gatve, secret taxi,
Wheels spinning dreams through the pouring city,
Take me to Bernardinų gatve, secret taxi,
Old town’s whisper calling me, set me free.

Take Me to Bernardinų Gatve

Golden rails in the evening light,
Rolling slow through Jánská’s sigh,
Only fifteen kilometers wide —
From heart to heart, just a blink of the sky.

The tram hums a sleepy song,
Winding the hills where dreams belong,
A tiny world between two towns,
A velvet thread I could have found.

But I stay, I wait,
I hold back fate,
Watch the open doors...
And let them close once more...

🎶 Evening tramway to Jablonec —
A perfect moment, as good as it gets.
Rolling faster, silver gleam,
Carrying hope, carrying dreams.
Evening tramway to Jablonec —
A fleeting chance I will forget,
Liberec fades in the gold sunset —
And I just watched it leave... 🎶

Fading wheels sing down the line,
I see the last car slip from time,
I could have flown, I could have tried —
But I stood frozen in my mind.

Behind the glass, the riders fade,
Tiny faces in the shade,
And Jablonec, so close, so near —
Becomes a land I'll never hear.

And I stay, I wait,
I hold back fate,
One tiny step...
I never take.

🎶 Evening tramway to Jablonec —
A perfect moment, as good as it gets.
Rolling faster, silver gleam,
Carrying hope, carrying dreams.
Evening tramway to Jablonec —
A fleeting chance I will forget,
Liberec fades in the gold sunset —
And I just watched it leave... 🎶

Oh, the roads we never tread,
The songs we never sang instead,
The hands we never dared to hold,
The dreams left whispering in the cold...

🎶 Evening tramway to Jablonec —
A perfect moment, a sweet regret.
Rolling faster, silver gleam,
Carrying hope, carrying dreams.
Evening tramway to Jablonec —
A story written in silhouettes,
Liberec fades in the soft sunset —
And I just watched it leave... 🎶

Evening Tramway to Jablonec

Sometimes I wish I could freeze the sky,
In that one sweet second when you looked in my eyes.
Hold the moment like a breath so deep,
A heartbeat caught in a velvet sleep.
Other times I crave the blur and rush,
Skip the pain, the weight, the aching hush.
Just press fast-forward through the night,
Chasing a flicker, chasing light.

But what if joy was waiting there—
In the shadows, soft and rare?
Would we miss it, lost in speed,
Trading gold for broken need?

Stop. Go. Slow it down.
Feel the beat, spin around.
Life’s a rhythm, not a line—
Fast-forward, rewind.

What’s the cost of skipping pain,
If love is blooming in the rain?
A whisper, hidden in the noise—
A silver thread, a secret choice.
If all was easy, would we dance,
Or sleepwalk through the dream by chance?
It’s the contrast makes it glow,
The highs, the lows, the ebb, the flow.

So would you trade the mess for ease,
The storm for silence, pain for peace?
Or let it play, this sacred tape—
Each frame a shape we can’t escape?

Stop. Go. Slow it down.
Feel the beat, spin around.
Life’s a rhythm, not a line—
Fast-forward, rewind.

Let the record play, let the shadows move,
There’s beauty in the cracks, and grace in the groove.
Maybe the magic lives between—
The paused breath and the in-between.

Stop. Go. Slow it down.
Feel the beat, spin around.
Don’t rush, don’t rewind—
Just dance in time.
Fast-forward… rewind…
Fast-forward… rewind…

Fast-Forward, Rewind

Miss Lorette in her linen blouse
Wanders 'round the classroom like a trapped grey mouse
With a stack of printouts, the holy writ
Of Chagall in blue, and that flying goat bit
She paints with her sighs, critiques with a snarl
Says, “Why can’t you kids just draw like Chagall?”
Your tree looks wrong, your sky’s too dull
Your dog doesn’t float, your face isn’t full

She’s got a shrine of cutouts and clippings
In the storage closet behind the trimmings
If your work’s not dreamy, not vaguely surreal
She’ll frown and mutter, “Do you even feel?”

Everything was Chagall, nothing more, nothing less
From the brush to the theme to the painter’s address
She’d say, “Emotion, kids! Just smear some blue!”
But your tears weren’t enough — she wanted sky-cows too
Every hour, every day, every project, every wall
Had to scream the same name — it was Chagall, Chagall!
Miss Lorette and her canvas cage
Trapped in her eternal floating village stage

We painted goats with violin hands
And brides in the sky over pastel lands
She never smiled at landscapes or cubes
But once she kissed a kid’s drawing — it was a Chagall ruse
She said, “Yes! You finally get it, my dove!”
But the kid had just traced it from the book she shoved

She'd say, “Marc was a prophet, a sage in paint!”
If you liked Van Gogh, she'd scream, “Have some restraint!”
Your inner world? Not her concern
She just wanted more Chagall to burn

Everything was Chagall, like a looping spell
In the kingdom of crushed dreams, she reigned too well
“Abstract is trash, and Cubism’s dead!”
She whispered that while stabbing a Picasso head
Every line, every shade, every desperate call
Echoed back with her moan: “Not Chagall at all…”
Oh, Miss Lorette and her pigment chains
Tied to a ghost in a world of stains

But then one day — oh God, that brave young soul...
Little Jamie stood up from his plastic throne
And said, “We’ve had enough of your Chagall regime!”
The room went cold — like a haunted dream
Her smile cracked, the wind began to cry
She turned around with fire in her eye

“You ungrateful brat,” she softly hissed
“You dare defy Marc’s sacred mist?”
The windows shattered, the lights went black
Jamie wept in chalk dust, praying to take it back

Everything was Chagall — and it always would be
You could beg, you could plead, but you’d never be free
From the swirling cows and the pale green brides
In Miss Lorette’s mind, that's where the truth hides
Every tear-stained drawing, every thunderstruck call
Was sucked into her vortex: Chagall, Chagall!
We learned about art, but not from the start —
We just memorized one tragic, floating heart

The Marc Chagall Song

Unbekannter Künstler

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