Fog curls round the Herengracht stone
Pages sleep in leather worn
Driver's hands know every zone
Morning fares are coldly born
Book listens to the bridge's song
Winter fog hangs low and long
Tales of streets where wheels belong
Written deep where ink runs strong
Canal water black as ink
Notebook covers cracked and dry
Driver blinks, he doesn't shrink
Years go past like clouds on high
Tram bell rings through misty air
Leather creaks in morning chill
Stories stacked with patient care
Waiting for the driver's will
Book listens to the bridge's song
Winter fog hangs low and long
Tales of streets where wheels belong
Written deep where ink runs strong
No meter running, no fare to pay
Just wind and water, wood and page
The city wakes in shades of gray
Another chapter starts the age
Sun breaks through the fog at last
Pages warm in golden light
Driver shifts from future past
Notebook closes, holding tight
Book listens to the bridge's song
Winter fog hangs low and long
Tales of streets where wheels belong
Written deep where ink runs strong
Leather lives where stories throng
Fog lifts slow on Herengracht
Leather rests where tales are stacked
