Holy Stranger Song

You knew that strangers watch you from an orange tree
Leaning on your window and calling for your body
As if he wanted you to ignore your dreams
Rusted games he plays, and dusty hands he had
And while he talks you notice he is tired

He comes in, and you tell him to sit down
By your bed, or by your secrets
You speak about some rivers that cross cemeteries
He smiles at you, so wild and weary
Suddenly you brake something
And the stranger departes, in a fury of confort

Oh dear, this is not a song