Millions of them, being written everywhere. Being sung in back alleys and railway stations, bars and clubs, parks and stadiums. Three people know it, two hundred, half a nation, one kid in his room.
Metephors fly about the air, a broken heart from the window of a passing car, gang wars on a construction site, peace and love in a cafe.
Songs everywhere. Millions of them.
Metephors fly about the air, a broken heart from the window of a passing car, gang wars on a construction site, peace and love in a cafe.
Songs everywhere. Millions of them.
