Monday, March 17, 2008

Drift (Recorded)

As chronicled by Glenn Ala at 7:28 PM
Recently learned that the one for whom I wrote this song has broken up with the guy he ended up with. Now he's with someone else.

Sigh.



It's the turn of the year
I see everything clear
Got a new job at a new place
Ready now to run the race

Packed my bags and said goodbye
To all the ones that passed me by
Everything fresh, everything new
It's all too good to be true

I face the road ahead
With much ado 'bout nothing
But the truth is I am running
Running away from you

Running away from you, oh woooh
Running away from you, oh woooh

Looked back at the pier
As mem'ries disappear
Of the love that I once knew
Farther away from you

Now I reach the shores of promise
But something's still amiss
Not everything fresh, not everything new
It's not complete without you

I face the road ahead
With much ado 'bout nothing
But the truth is I am running
Running away from you

Running away from you, oh woooh
Running away from you, oh woooh

I have crossed the seas and oceans blue
Only to find my heart...

Drifting back to you, oh woooh
Drifting back to you, oh woooh
Drifting back to you, oh woooh
Drifting back to you

- written January 7th, on the night I arrived in Boracay, revised with music January 13th
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The Chronicler's Creed

Where there's water and sun, where there are friends to see or new people to meet, where there's something new to learn, experience, or do, where there's life, there I will be.

LA POESÍA

Y fue a esa edad... Llegó la poesía
a buscarme. No sé, no sé de dónde
salió, de invierno o río.
No sé cómo ni cuándo,
no, no eran voces, no eran
palabras, ni silencio,
pero desde una calle me llamaba,
desde las ramas de la noche,
de pronto entre los otros,
entre fuegos violentos
o regresando solo,
allí estaba sin rostro
y me tocaba.

And it was at that age... Poetry arrived
in search of me. I do not know, I do not know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I do not know how or when,
no, they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.

- An excerpt from LA POESÍA (Poetry) by Pablo Neruda