First Page

In September this page is unwritten. With colors from autumn's earth turning the tide to a new dream. The birds have flown away or are hiding. In silver woods somewhere where 1001 leaves are falling. I am opening the first page (to write a song I yet don't know…) . Although it’s still only August in another time. (Inspiration: First Page by Federico García Lorca: In March you go off to the moon. Leave your shadow behind. The prairies are turning unreal. They’re raining white birds. And I’m stuck in your forest & cry “Open sesame! ” (Could I still be a child?) “Open sesame! ”