When the streets belonged to us

The asphalt accelerated underneath our heels,
yet the friction could not slow us down.
Each jump reached higher towards the sky,
and gravity ceased to control us.
Tell me why we felt so invincible?
I’ll tell you why baby, we knew nothing about the world.
In our ignorant bliss, the streets belonged to us.

Overtook by young foolish dreams, we called ourselves revolutionaries.
But what effect do self-claimed revolts have on the world,
when the future has no room for their growth?
What does it matter that hot-blooded youth feel society is beneath them,
when they are bound powerlessly by society’s superficilaity?
But still, we believed that the streets belonged to us.

You can say that we caused our undoing.
We misleadingly believed that our lives are governed by simplicity, ill prepared for the complexities ahead.
Such high expectations deprived and drained our blurred passion and reason.
That drive for life remains unreplaced.
Our tragedy stems in our wishes that the streets belonged to us.

But I tell you, the streets do belong to us.
Humanistic struggles have broken me, not erased me.
The streets do not belong to corporate dogs, but to hopeless beings like me.
Whose basic trust stands unaltered? Us.
Whose words shook the foundations of these streets? Us.
Whose name carries on to the corner of the street? Us.
So I say it again, without wasting my breath:
the streets belong to us

I’d hate to say that I remember and cherish that moment alone,
so let me relive the paradise lost for both you and me:
a time when the streets belonged to us.
Never with a sigh, nor between the exhale of a cigarette, say:
When the streets belonged to us.


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