The eyes and hearts interpret the reality of the day,
Onon a pavement that was adorned by my interpretive being.
In the depths of my soul, a determining eagerness is born.
I suffered from the fact that an old street is overflowing with so much fascination.

The noises of the latch resonate with my small speculative soul,
which are screaming for the delight from delinquents' roses.
We are prisoner sleeping between the silence of the night,
and the noise of the day.
We are born from a paraphony path of one pedestrian band,
Walkingwalking in the hallucination made by the rhythm of Old Street.

Marking the reflective abdication within the soufflé of a new era.
We transcend millennia to deploy the classic knowledge.
These are the lascivious fruits harvested by an irrational social organization.
Leaving us encapsulated in the horse cart car driven by lethargic sleeplessness.

As we come out of the junction of Old Street and City Road,
Wewe see the delayed wishes of the past in the tissue of space and time.
This leads us with the relief, from a lost heart between praiseworthy lovers.
I wander alone in the dazzles of the pubs, looking for my universal intuitive thoughts.
I swim away from my private pragmatic contradictions in the last instance.

Furthermore, I wrap my old ideas in gold cotton yarn,
which is lying on my gratifying dirty susceptibility.
The same old stars melt my rationality away.
The same old street is dancing with my lovers.
We will never be the same people, with the same mentality.

Old Street.
Paul Southgate.