Hidden worlds
Lyrics
8 Songs
The hermit
hold more tears than happiness can dry,
looming cliffs that are so steep
keep the valley hidden deep
from the view of the misty northern sky.
To the blind man in his mossy ancient tower
the whispering of millions of tears
is in the babbling of the brook
urging him to take a look
into the souls, their failings, pains and fears.
And he prays for the dead and for the dying
and the down-and-out in their forgotten plight,
those who suffer without hope,
for the poor who cannot cope
until an echo chimes from the mountainside.
And he prays for the sad and for the lonely,
for the crippled and those who’ve lost their mind,
for the people who don’t see
and for those who are not free
and for those who fate left all behind.
When darkness shades the grim rims of the mountains
the hermit in his tower goes to sleep,
but his prayers so it seems
even echo in his dreams
while in the brook the whirling waters weep.
Moths
as if they’re eager to play.
They hit the lamps that shine so bright
they circle tight
they’re dumb all right
but they are going to stay.
I’m out to get their furry hide
me and my insecticide!
And so I’ll stop their silly flight,
they won’t see the light of the day!
And so the moths can’t fly no more
my winter woollies are safe.
Can’t hit the lamps that shine so bright
can’t circle tight
and roam the night
and nibble my sweaters by day.
I was out and got their furry hide
me and my insecticide!
And so I stopped their silly flight,
they can’t see the light of the day!
Morning blues
empty hours that bear no name.
A yesterday’s gone, no tomorrow at hand
can a new moon still be on the wane.
An echoing tune in a run-down hall
where a candle glows on worn-out keys.
The shadows lie gently, allow me to fall
onto waves of chance harmonies.
He’s hiding there in the grey night’s sky
to settle ancient dues;
I’m floating between low and high
on an early morning blues.
Peaceful silence, the town’s asleep
and even time stands still.
I wander on hindsight I’d like to keep
and I hope that I always will.
Sweet surrender to memories
that come like welcome friends.
The light goes down on a fading screen
as I leave the night’s no man’s land.
The storyteller
oh, tell me what is going on?
I see a pack of red checked children,
there’s also some grown ups who run along.
Clattering sandals and agitated voices,
a beggar in the corner in yelling for a hand,
young and old, poor maimed and wealthy
all gather in the market at the strange man’s stand.
Strange are the tales that the old man tells
as he takes them on journeys through heavens and hells.
And they slay the dragon, escape a deadly fall:
The storyteller heals their sorrows,
paints colourful dreams for them all.
And they cling to his lips
as he raises his voice,
turns women into girls
and old men into boys.
Come join the ride on the magic carpet
and see the one-eyed giant die!
Explore the Never-Never islands
and watch the world through the eagle’s eye.
Nightshift
the night shift’s working still:
And while we dream our nights away
the night shift never will.
She said good-bye when her work was done
as the night watchman opened the door;
so quiet the night a light rain had begun.
She felt cold like never before.
All these years she’d been working at night;
she’d kept all the offices clean.
She’d dusted the desks in the pale neon light,
had made the huge windows gleam.
The night watchman there in the vast entrance hall
speaks to himself avoiding the sleep.
There is no answer but the echo from the wall
and then the silence grows deep.
You hardly know you rarely see
the people working in the night.
They go home when you and I
go to work in broad daylight.
The old taxi driver at the station stand
reads his paper while waiting for fares
sometimes touching the dashboard like a friend,
the only one who cares.
Little boy reading comics
and the world progresses with the pages turned.
Absorbed by the story
where giants fight and cities burn.
He reads all stories about his heroes’ lives,
how in the end they win and never ever die.
And I haven’t got the heart to call Superman a lie
it would break the little boy’s heart.
A touch of paradise
slowly freeing from the sleep of a good night
and wondering what the day will bring.
Down to the kitchen she tiptoes on bare feet
stretching her hands to the stoves friendly heat
and waits for the nettle to sing.
How she likes the hours
when the day is fresh and yawning
every waking, every brand new,
every sun-filled morning.
Outside the house the cats have begun to play
the rooster crows proudly on a stack of hay,
the hens peck busily at the ground.
The dog stretches idly outside his house
and lazily watches the feeding of the cows
then turns and looks around.
These are precious moments she likes to hold
all through the day that makes her grow old
and over the years that race by.
A touch of paradise enters her mind
in these morning hours so calm and so kind
sometimes she can’t help but cry.
Cosy hideaway
street life dies down with the light.
People rush home after long days of toil,
longing for peace in the night.
Island of warmth my castle my home,
protect me from the cold outside!
When I’m haunted by everyday life,
I know within you I can hide
When life is just rotten as I always say,
you’re my cosy hideaway
I cherish the drinks that my home has in store;
they’re soothing my wounded soul.
It calms my strained eyes and my overworked ears,
with TV or sweet Rock ‘n Roll.
My home cushions angers my fears and my pain,
it offers me a welcome retreat.
There’s no one to deal with I don’t want to see,
there’s no one I have to meet.
