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The moon reflected off of his face
A white glow outlining his figure
Is it truly him or just a memory?
The moon gives him an old fashioned look
Just how he looked before he left
his hair moves a little with the wind
Is it possible?

If his hand touched mine
my heart would stop from lost years
that same colour hair as mine
Even if it is impossible
I think I've forgotten how it looks

His movements are nothing; it is frightening
He does not say a word
But the wind sings that song from before
The tune from the brown, old record player
Is this a song of my memory?
A dream could sing and show his face
Is this real?

Could I hear his voice
If I got closer to his figure?
After so long I remember it
Or would he go away?
I dont want to forget that voice

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