Sitting on a beautiful hill,
I often start to dream
And then I can't help but feel
That the thing's not in the money
Or the number of women
Or the ancient folk wisdom
Or the latest New Wave
But we forge blindly on, to where it's not clear.
And all we carry with us is our joy and our fear;
Fear that we're worse than we could be,
And joy we're in reliable hands or so it appears.
But though my dreams don't seem able to make
Any change in me,
I can't escape them;
But when I awaken,
I hope that you'll be here with me.
A attempt at rhyme, rhythm and meaning for an old favorite; offered as a modest contribution to Dzhub's re-examination of Den' Serebra, since anything that takes us out of 1989 for a while is probably a good thing.