by Sven Kloepping
He sits in a corner of the empty road,
and drinks his whiskey upper-left.
He's chained in what was once a coat,
and thinks that freedom's coming back.
He sometimes sings forgotten songs
living in his coloured memories.
And winter thinks this man belongs
to somewhat that could never freeze.
In ancient times he was a fighter,
with fire in his burning blood.
© 2000 Sven Kloepping
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