Track Insight / Lyrics
Paris sleeps in silver grey,
Another night just slips away.
Coffee steams, a hazy line,
Counting footsteps, one by nine.
Cobblestones reflect the pale moon glow,
Each passing shadow, soft and slow.
Leather soles and hurried stride,
Stories whispered, deep inside.
A lover's glance, a whispered plea,
They all walk past, but not with me.
This terrace holds a silent view,
Of chimney pots and morning dew.
Old men dreaming, young girls sigh,
Lost in moments drifting by.
I watch them fade, a ghostly trace,
Another face in this restless place.
Rooftop steps, a steady beat,
A rhythm pulsing in the street.
Every footfall, a memory made,
Lost in Paris, unafraid.
I count them all, the passing throng,
Wishing someone would linger long.
The bistro lights, a golden hue,
Paint the shadows, fresh and new.
A lonely trumpet, soft and low,
Echoes secrets, to and fro.
The scent of wine and cigarette smoke,
Another promise softly spoke.
He walks with purpose, strong and true,
A leather jacket, soaked in dew.
She follows softly, hand in hand,
Lost in a Parisian wonderland.
A fleeting moment, sweet and bright,
Lost to the darkness of the night.
Rooftop steps, a steady beat,
A rhythm pulsing in the street.
Every footfall, a memory made,
Lost in Paris, unafraid.
I count them all, the passing throng,
Wishing someone would linger long.
These streets remember every name,
Every heartbreak, every flame.
I'm just a witness, quiet and still,
Watching life unfold, against my will.
The coffee's cold, the night is deep,
Secrets the ancient rooftops keep.
The dawn arrives, a gentle grace,
Washing shadows from this place.
The steps slow down, the pace subdued,
Another day misunderstood.
I wipe the table, clean and bright,
Ready to face another night.
Rooftop steps, a steady beat,
A rhythm pulsing in the street.
Every footfall, a memory made,
Lost in Paris, unafraid.
I count them all, the passing throng,
Wishing someone would linger long.
One more step, then gone from sight,
Lost in the Paris morning light.
Rooftop steps, fading slow,
Where do these wandering footsteps go?
Counting footsteps, one by one...
Paris sleeps until the setting sun.
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