Under a streetlight in Paris A young man sits with his guitar Playing softly to a woman who would never hear. Like a child looking for that first star He looks up at an empty window and sings A flower of hope Trapped inside the strings With his song he tries to release it Only to find it has turned to dust The music rises like smoke Tantalizing up to the window The notes freeze and crack And fall resolutely to the ground It seems even hope has frozen He starts to pack up The night has turned colder. A tear falls to the ground and shatters He places his guitar in its case It envelops the cold mahogany body Shelters it from the cold. His heart needs a cover He decides to play a bit more To place his heart out in the open His fingers are raw from playing in the cold. But yet he dreams... A woman comes to the window high above A satin dress encloses her perfect body Even her silhouette is flawless. She listens to the young man in tattered clothes. The song that comes from that old guitar Sings of love lost, love found, and love that could never be. He plays an orchestra, with only six strings. Something wet falls and shatters. The man sees the tear fall and looks up The window once framing her luminescent figure is empty. The curtains drift slowly in the night air The man is saddened, but he smiles to himself. He keeps playing, hoping she will return. Hope perhaps is the last thing keeping him alive. And even that is wearing thin as his threadbare coat That the wind travels through and he shivers She does return Like an addict to a drug She is attracted to his song Her cheeks are flushed with life He plays on not looking up He is conscious of his tattered clothes His heart is torn Between dreams and reality So near yet so far A window high above and a humble street corner. Two worlds separated them Brought together by a melancholy melody He looks up, and their eyes meet. Under a streetlight in Paris.