Hold on to the hand of your lover. Because when the baton falls it will be between the spaces where we stand.
Stay in a group, never in alleyways
In the blanks of muddy moonlight
Magic boys and girls of Bangladesh, I love you.
The July wind brought in the scent of new beginnings
When we cease to have rhythm, we are dead. And we cease to have poetry, we are spiritually dead, one way or another.
Hold on to the hand of your lover. Because when the baton falls it will be between the spaces where we stand.
Stay in a group, never in alleyways
The July wind brought in the scent of new beginnings
Magic boys and girls of Bangladesh, I love you.
In the blanks of muddy moonlight
When we cease to have rhythm, we are dead. And we cease to have poetry, we are spiritually dead, one way or another.
