That man who never sleeps does not admit mistakes
That man who never wakes up dreams his life away
(A masterpiece still unnamed)
Refrains from dissonant sounds (it's always a laboring)
Playing the conductor of his own perfect symphony
But always a string seems to mistune from the orchestra
He needs to arrange it all
So he tunes his life in a key so bright
But he can never understand that in score of sky
The storms are notes that must be also played
Keeps on the choir, walking by nameless chords
(Life is really strange: You hear it but can't name
This untitled song)
His voice was hesitant and colourless
As in those who hope for nothing
Because it’s perfectly useless to hope
The same choked voice, as if a tight rope
Wounded around his throat
As he goes time remains quiet (it doesn't care if you rush by
It gets along with every beat you try
It conforms the pace you trace)
Will that man speed up?
Will he stop? Will he get the final applause now?
Even though they're born in every yard
That man is hiding thorns
(If people see them, what will they say?)
So he tunes his life in a key so bright
But he can never understand that in score of sky
The storms are notes that must be also played
Keeps on the choir until the last chord sounds
But by now he can't hear himself
The loud crowd is in the way
(Life is as strange as an untitled song)
