A bottle of minutes slipping through sand
There’s so much in it if you understand
The morning bird rises living only to fly
As the moon creates its candle in tomorrow’s sunny sky
A bottle of wine chills on the table
The cork is screwed, pulled from the label
The glasses are filled, they spill the toast
They’re making the most of each other
A lifetime of thoughts asleep in my bed
A pocket of dreams I keep in my head
There’s little known facts of the stars and waves
And all the other passions in which we’re enslaved
A quiet street corner on a late rainy eve
A small empty bar where they forget to believe
Restless as a wind shackled in locks
Lonesome as a head trapped inside a box
Nighttime falls at the end of the day
A time when daydreams come into play
The pile of minutes has now reached its end
But we’ll tip it right over, let the sands run again
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