Caught in the convulsions of thought;
I wonder…
You have that man waiting
I got that girl sighing
Yet…
What is the cause?
What is the cause?
Of this ecstasy of imagination
What is this tremor?
This thought and that idea,
Makes us uncomfortable
We run in the rain, to find that pane.
And, the jest just goes on.
The music of your laughter
And the rhapsody of my words.
The world going round;
And the birds flying high.
Our eyes meet, at that infinite universe
Yet, the reluctance of this Earthly endurance.
The mad man writes on,
The hopeless romantic dies alone,
The Absurdist goes back on his own.
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