The street is still, the windows brim with eyes.
Everyone is looking, no-one sees.
These eyes are tainted by their owners’ lies.
As we age, our innocence will die
But saplings grow between the older trees
The street is still, the windows speak by eye.
If the charts were right, the sailors cried.
Eyes gazed out across the unknown seas
These eyes distorted by old, telling lies
A spectacle, a triumph, who and why?
Who displays their riches, who will flee?
The street is still, the windows weep like eyes.
The Arche de Triomphe for the French, I sigh.
Was defeat imagined Victory?
Their thoughts distorted by old worn out lies
Was the blame borne by the true and free?
Who was hanging on the shadowed Tree?
The street is still.Look, window-fulls of eyes.
These dark eyes are crying for their lovers lies