Coming home (Ponte/Chávarri) 2007

Burning the night with the bright flame of pleasure,
Searching the pits and the gutters for treasure,
Holding the gaze of the beast and its measure,
And I'm always coming home.

Jumping off cliffs into bottomless waters,
Craving the hunt but ignoring the slaughter,
Whispering riddles to the reaper's daughter,
And you're always coming home.

But if we could stop the clock...
All the poems in the world,
All the music, all the songs,
Every right and every wrong,
Would not matter anymore.

Shaking the dust of an old carnival road,
Stealing the games from the gods by the truckload,
Making a long, silly rhyme using Morse code,
And we're always coming home.

Joyful adventures, improbable capers,
Evening strolls, breakfast over newspapers,
Travels beyond "here be dragons", and later
We'll be never coming home.

But if we could wind the clock...
All the monsters in the world,
All the freaks and all the trolls,
Every fool that speaks in tongues,
Would forever hold us close.

Mirrors on the wall,
Certainties you can't recall,
Tales that were so tall,
Would not matter anymore.