At night when the birds stop mocking,
the fading sun in haze is rocking
and the moon still just a sliver,
you dread the night ahead and shiver.
A bed is waiting, cold and lonely,
and a name you whisper echoes only
long into the endless hours.
A mindless journey, this life of ours.
And yet we go on searching, hoping,
in the dark for light we're groping
wishing away all the shadows.
In the distance there are meadows
full of life and full of laughter,
happiness for ever after,
but not for us, they're meant for others.
Up above a vulture hovers
over dreams and magic towers.
A lonely life, this life of ours.
By Teresa Gligoric