Time
Ticking away the moments that make up a dull day
You fritter and waste the hours in an offhand way
Kicking around on a piece of ground in your home town
Waiting for someone or something to show you the way
Tired of lying in the sunshine
Staying home to watch the rain
And you are young and life is long
And there is time to kill today
And then one day you find
Ten years have got behind you
No one told you when to run
You missed the starting gun
And you run, and you run to catch up with the sun, but it's sinking
And racing around to come up behind you again
And the sun is the same in a relative way, but you're older
Shorter of breath and one day closer to death
Every year is getting shorter
Never seem to find the time
Plans that either come to nought
Or half a page of scribbled lines
Hanging on in quiet desparation is the English way
The time is gone
The song is over
Thought I'd something more to say
Home, home again
I like to be here when I can
And when I come home cold and tired
It's good to warm my bones beside the fire
Far away, across the field
The tolling of the iron bell
Calls the faithful to their knees
To hear the softly spoken magic spell
Roger Waters |
Time
Minutes flow, hours and days
in relentless flight vanish without a trace.
How terrible within these four walls
you push your graying thoughts about.
And you wait for someone. But comes a day,
when on illuminated paths,
lit by the radiance of the sun,
with veins chilled and rain-soaked
you will stop for a moment suddenly struck
by a thought: Youth is lived through,
and how will you admit, in horror,
to yourself, that it is squandered.
And truly still not having lived,
your gray day measures a final pulse.
And you will seize time without mercy
with feverish hands and icy dread.
Toward the sun with withered eyes,
exhausted, parched you will climb.
But the sun will remain cruelly silent
and you will find nothing new,
because you are just an ordinary person
of middle age. Very soon
maybe comes that terrible day,
when death closes your eyes.
Will you return, will you restore
what is lost, already squandered?!
On a map you will stake, a bright shore
you seek, but within you like a wound
will burn the thought that two things
you can never restore to yourself:
To save life from death
and to return time backwards!
The song runs out like water!
But time remains its guardian.
To here my trace has come,
and I had so much more to tell you.
Petya Dubarova |
