September Bossa Nova

September Bossa Nova

Verse 1:
September’s shy, a guest who won’t intrude,
He enters soft, not brushing off his cloak.
A handful of the sun, in playful mood,
Into my waiting arms, a golden stroke.
The nylon string is not yet cold or brittle,
The soul is far from chanting any prayer.
A cup of tea holds silence for a little,
The sun still has some business with the air.

Chorus:
Oh, Indian Summer — such a fragile string,
The final gift the stingy heavens send.
When every hope within the soul takes wing,
Though all around us whispers of the end.
The silver threads are floating on the breeze,
Connecting summer with the great unknown...
It seems the time has come to feel at ease,
When we... when even we have simply grown.

Verse 2:
Look at the maple, such a gifted lead,
Applying makeup for his final play.
The wind, an old conductor, takes the heed
To rustle through the notes across the way.
Spendthrift August hid his heavy purse,
And left us just a copper coin to hold.
The path to frost is light, a quiet course,
While September’s summer burns with liquid gold.

Verse 3:
We’re older now by just a single chord,
A couple of lines, a doubt that never sets.
But this crisp air's a medicine restored,
A cure for all our longings and regrets.
Don’t rush the cold, guitar, let it be slow,
Recall the warmth of palms upon your grain.
For life is like the water’s hidden flow:
It slips through nets, but never sinks in vain.

Outro:
September paints his canvases in red,
With heavenly exhaustion in his eyes.
It seems the bridges burn behind, instead...
It seems there are no bridges in these skies.

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