When the fire ablaze dies down And the water comes rushing to town There is ashes left, black and brown Calm and open, waiting for the cloud
It is a no-man’s oath I now preach Heading to somewhere dark and steep I would fall down to the hollow deep Waiting for prisoners, years to keep
I am going back to the devil’s land Where I won’t find a good kind hand People are selfish and half dead they stand Upon the house that lives demand
I am going back to the oblong ground Where goodness has died, evil surround I am in a ride in a merry-go-round I won’t get off as the screams get loud
Ties of horror, many are the crimes Torn lives in darkness, disappear the time Black coats and living souls reach the sky Everything I hear is a scream and a cry
It feels nothing special to be a rug by the door To have people step on you as they come then go Come water or rain you leave me right outside I will take your greatest messes all and every time
It is nice to always stay down in the floor I get to watch the world in all, but gold I would pretend I am deaf every time youlie And keep my dark eyes always towards the sky
I always hear your whispers when they’re gone How you really wished they were away in bones I now do think I am lucky to be a rug by the door Than be a human who change at every door
There was once a tea shop at 18 Zavian Street, which sold memories. The memories were held together in white crystal bottles and written over them with black ink was the year they were from. There were memories from as back as 100 BCEs and memories as new as from yesterday. The tea shop was manned by a huge old man named Albert Dunning.
Little was known about Albert Dunning to the people of 18 Zavian Street. Nobody knew where he came from and when he started the shop. As long as anyone living in the street can remember, the tea shop was always there, waiting for new customers in the morning with its opened red doors and at night closed with a huge sign that read ‘Closed‘ hanging over its door. People came to the tea shop from all far away places to get their hands on new memories.
Albert Dunning made the memory tea himself for everyone. First he would make the tea which is the simplest part of the process; and then he would take a crystal bottle from one of his tall shelves. Nobody can decide which memory he will pour out on their tea. Some people had enjoyed one of their best memories in his shop, but some were disappointed by the memories he put in, but they still came back to his shop hoping he would give them a good memory one day.
One fine day, say the 29th of September the residents of 18 Zavian Street went to the corner of the street as always in the morning to enjoy a warm cup of memory tea. But the people are said to have stood before the tea shop (what used to be the tea shop) in shock. They were bewildered as they realized the tea shop was no longer there and it was as if it had disappeared into the air.
Nobody saw Albert Dunning after that, but stories about him and his strange tea shop are still passed between the people and the occasional travelers who came to the street, who always wonder how someone can sell memories. How the tea shop came about and it’s sudden disappearance is still a mystery for people of 18 Zavian Street to ponder over.
Away, away from your reach Resides a dream upon the breeze Held together by a wish all free Knitted from the strands of sea Angry faces I secretly see High on the clouds and above trees Looking down right at me I run from them, holding my dreams
Stones I collect and watch all day Wishing a pearl to come my way Months do pass and nothing change My little dream run wild and stray I nurture plants and wish flowers to stay But like a promise they wither away I wish to dance and feel wind’s play On my face and upon earth’s wide plain
Wander and wander I trulywill And run away from their unsure grip Upon me and hundred who had hoped To win one day and had eventually stopped So I decide to go on and on To where my compass takes, it is home
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