A man with a pipe,
Strolls down the boulevard.
A man with a pipe,
Appears at the crack of dawn.
Collecting shattered dreams,
Forgotten dreams,
With a broken smile.

His weary eyes,
Whispers heavily to a morning ray,
A dreary tale.

He greets the passing by,
Tossing to their eyes,
Soft grains of golden words.
But there is no answer,
Neither a morning sigh.

This gloomy silence,
This sadness,
Their blue, leaves it's sandy shapes,
At the tip of his eyelashes.
He poorly tries to blink it away.

So with a defeated gesture,
He lifts his pipe to his dry lips,
All drained of their vivid color,
And inhales deep into his soul.
Emptying every essence of it.

Everything is numb.

And with what seems like a yawn,
He opens his mouth,
And puffs the last morning fog,
While the world stops by.