The kitchen is over in the corner, And the water comes from pumping by hand. The dining room table is a loner; It wobbles when you wish for it to stand. Across the way is the room for living Which is really nothing more than a couch. Underneath it you can keep your clothing, What we call our convenient storage pouch. At night, it turns into a single bed Where two of you can cuddle together. The back door id where you will rest your head, Safe against the cold, Icelandic weather. In here, across the island, you’ll scamper, Ready to become a Happy Camper.
It must be nice waking up being you With the joy that you greet each single day. Your sky must always be a crystal blue, Another opportunity for play. To all you meet, there is an infection That gives them the same happiness to spread. They will see the morning introduction Soaking up the cheerfulness that was said. You are not able to leave your hotel Because of the arrival of new guests, But it is not a bed that you will sell, Rather a relief from life’s harsh duress. The holiday here was comfortable Only because you were personable.
In the courtyard live an old olive tree Who has witnessed the change of the island. From the ancient ships from across the sea To battles fought on the beach’s sand, It has stood watching ages come and go. For its majesty, they built a courtyard To shelter its branches from Winter’s blow. The shade its leaves provide will act as guard For this simple table where we will dine On this culture’s culinary delights. We will toast her with our glasses of wine On how her, here now, makes the perfect night. I don’t know if this was our destiny, The pairing of us and our olive tree.
I see you have reached the desperation Of a fool whose options are running out, So you strengthen your contamination While weakening what you are all about. This does not mean we can let our guard down For you’ll return with a new mutation, But even that will have lesser renown When facing the anger of this nation. You may keep our smiles behind a thick mask, And we may continue to jab our arms, Making the routine no longer a task; We will not fear your diminishing harms. Though history will be filled with shed tears, We will get over these bitter, old fears.
The lives that they lived were the lives of kings Though the blood in their veins was not royal. The comfort and happiness that wealth brings Is not always based upon life’s toil, And the select few who strut these cities Did not break their backs to build their roadways; Instead, they pointed to the groves of trees, Deciding that there the buildings would raise. They would sit back with their glass of red wine, Sighing while watching all of the legs run. They’d brag at how their money made things fine After the hard labor’s work was done. But all this greatness was soon forgotten When they were sealed in a tomb to rot in.
The seeds had been found in an earthen jar, Buried for saving, centuries ago. Even the wearing of time could not mar The vineyards that would eventually grow. From this ancient grape a new production Brought back to the world the sweetest nectar, Recalling an old epic seduction Of Odysseus’s long adventure. Legend even tells of lion hearted Royalty praising the drink’s great value. From Earth, the recipe never parted As stories of it glory only grew. It is the reason for this aria That we will sing for Commandaria.
Not only the changing of the seasons Are buried during the Earth’s rotation Numerous times again around the sun. The tide will also take our creation, And cover it with the beach’s fine sand To compress it into a hardened stone. History will take this forgotten land To turn it to a place where plants have grown. It will take a man with a fine-haired brush And the patience of the centuries lost To push away the silence of time’s hush, Reminding us of a past that we tossed. The mosaic that once laid on the floor, We can now admire like once before.
Should I care that I need to get away Because my life has been beating me down? Is it a matter of where I will stay For another night in my new home town? I have gotten bored of these same old streets, And need a completely different view. When I wander down them, my heart retreats, And longs for a Spring morning to renew. The day of it being gloomy portends A future of more days being inside, But a break in the stormy clouds ends How the weather makes depression abide. I call for the rising of the Spring sun To confirm my renewal has begun.