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The fog is lifting from this city,
In its oft played game of hide-and-seek;
Big jet ascending into the heavens,
Into the end of another week.
On the northern slope I see a graveyard,
Looks from here like the ruins of Rome;
While at the edge of this autumn palette,
A bagman searches among the stones.
I'm standing still, still as the morning,
For this moment free from the game;
And in the end there's no distinction,
The bagman and I go out the same.
Yes, I'll be still, finish my coffee,
Bathe my soul in the morning hue;
While high above the seagull circles,
Searching the stones as the sun breaks through.
Ah, the fog is lifting from this city,
In its oft played game of hide-and-seek;
Big jet ascending into the heavens,
Into the end of another week.
Into the end of another week.
