Forward Russia. Five. Zeneszám

Strolling down the pavement,
A twinkle in your stride.
I won't be the only one
To be left behind should

You choose to leave.
You'd walk out the door: lucid, tanned, healthy, real.

You've got a stranger's hand,
But not a lover's eye.
You've got to leave it falling all the time but

No love's lost.
You could be the one who sleeps through all that's real.

Walk away.
Late acolade, you could have been everything.