Tag Archives: songwriting

Come si dice…Peace?

I wish I could explain to her,
Why there’s so many wars, and peace is hard to find.
I’m ashamed to say I’m only 21
and I live a better life, than the majority of the world.
Hatred, shame, brutality, at the moment rule the earth.
I tell her peace will return, but I’m not sure if that’s wishful of me to think,
and I feel like such a hypocrite, explaining humanity’s suffering from a distance, out the thick of it, like I really understand how people out there live,
whilst sitting in my house, with running water made of brick.

Come si dice…Peace? – Elena Andrean 4/8/2014

Fools Gold

Sifting through the waters to find one,
A little stone, or a rare diamond
And suddenly you see one when the waves pull away
Not particularly bold or shiny,
But you take a shine to it.
When you look closer it’s edges are roughly outlined
and it’s not at all what you had in mind,
But it fits in your pocket.
A little stone, or a rare diamond
Washed up in what the waves left behind
A gem you expected to be the colours of Gold,
But instead, is slightly Green in hue
And slowly but surely it reminds you,
Of someone you knew

Fools Gold – 21/10/2014 Elena Andrean

Rarely Speak At All – Rumi

Whoever Brought Me Here, Will Have To Take Me Home All day I think about it, then at night I say it.
Where did I come from, and what am I supposed to be doing?
I have no idea.
My soul is from elsewhere, I’m sure of that,
and I intend to end up there.
This drunkenness began in some other tavern.
When I get back around to that place,
I’ll be completely sober. Meanwhile,
I’m like a bird from another continent, sitting in this aviary.
The day is coming when I fly off,
but who is it now in my ear who hears my voice?
Who says words with my mouth?
Who looks out with my eyes? What is the soul?
I cannot stop asking.
If I could taste one sip of an answer,
I could break out of this prison for drunks.
I didn’t come here of my own accord, and I can’t leave that way.
Whoever brought me here, will have to take me home.
This poetry. I never know what I’m going to say.
I don’t plan it.
When I’m outside the saying of it,
I get very quiet and rarely speak at all.
– Rumi