The road was long and winding,
not many other cars but my own,
passing me once in every while,
flashing my eyes with bright yellow.
The sky above, bright with stars,
looking carefully, a crescent of moon.
You wouldn't get this where I'm from--
The sky wouldn't be this pure.
The sky wouldn't be this pure,
the stars wouldn't form constellations.
The moon would be just another lamp,
but, of course, not nearly as bright.
The road wouldn't smell of asphalt,
the cool wouldn't waft in the windows--
Glass that never went down back home,
blocking out the honks and brick work.
This place was stuck in time--
People lived their lives in a garden,
Their whole lives just one lazy summer day,
with butterflies and the sun and flowers.
'Here' didn't have everything either.
They didn't have the sky high roofs,
the looking down at the bright lights,
talking about life at 3 in the morning.
They didn't have the buzz of life,
they had the hum, the quiet.
They didn't have the constant motion,
always waiting for The Next Moment.
They didn't live like I did,
with the hot days and cool nights,
the constant complaining about stress,
but never wanting to really go away.
They had it all, I suppose,
Sunflower fields, peace, eternal romance,
The clean and cool air and sky,
The empty roads lined with trees.
But home was where the heart was,
and my heart was in the busy streets.
The busy streets and bright lights.
The rooftops and the small apartments.