1. |
Look At The Stars Tonite
03:55
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The world’s just fine and singing loud tonite:
“The sky turned blue the moment the sun had set,
and every star up above testified with its light
that everyone was pure love.”
The world’s just fine and spinning fast tonite,
the sky turns blue: I wish y’all had the same clue.
So many stars up above: I’da been with ‘em all,
testifying we’re pure love!
If you look at the stars tonite
you’ll see they never give up, they shine
and if you look at them all tonite, see,
whatever your cross, you’re still in charge as the boss of your life.
Forever.
Whatever.
My mind’s just fine and thinking clear tonite,
the sky turns blue: I wish y’all got the same clue.
So many stars up above: we’re as bright as them all,
everyone is pure love!
If you look at the stars tonite
you’ll see they never give up, they shine
and if you look at them all tonite, see,
whatever your cross, you’re still in charge as the boss of your life.
Tonite you’ll see the stars don’t give up, they shine
and if you look at them all tonite, see,
whatever your cross, you’re still in charge as the boss of your life.
Forever.
Whatever.
Look at the stars tonite. Never give up and shine.
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2. |
'Tis A Pity, Indeed
03:45
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‘Tis a pity, indeed: how come we didn’t figure it out?
Sounds like we were getting stuck in what we thought we were.
Who did we think we were?
Who told us what to be?
Where did we think we’d go?
What to think? This is it.
Who’s able to foresee?
If anyone knows, I’m here.
Who told us what to do?
Was it too hard to guess who it was?
Stuck in what we are, do we see?
This is it.
Now tell me how to sleep.
If anyone knows, I’m here.
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3. |
Black Ink
04:16
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This may seem just black ink
unless you think ‘bout it as the kisses I can’t give you:
you just ain’t here,
so I draw ‘em down here…
This may seem simply a paper sheet
to those who just don’t know how I wish you were damn here...
but you just ain’t here,
so I need to think this paper to be your white skin,
your soft, pale, distant skin.
You know, love’s not quiet at all
So why should I spell it that low?
Christ! I’m gonna twist your ears,
I’m gonna burst in a crowd-like sound,
you’ll find out real love is proud... real love is loud:
as I find your name’s the sweetest sound even as a shout!
How I wish you were damn here...
but you just ain’t here,
so I need to think this paper to be your white skin,
your soft, pale, distant skin.
You know, love’s not quiet at all
So why should I spell it that low?
Christ! I’m gonna twist your ears,
I’m gonna burst in a crowd-like sound,
you’ll find out real love is proud... real love is loud:
as I find your name’s the sweetest sound even as a shout!
Real love is proud.
You know, love’s not quiet at all
So why should I spell it that low?
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4. |
London
02:58
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Write my name on a bench when I’m gone,
feed a squirrel, feed a fox:
spend some time on your own, walk alone
in London.
Spend some time on your own,
on a bus, breathing slow.
Where’s your heart, well, that’s home
(home is where the heart is);
venture out of your comfort zone:
spend some time on your own, let yourself go
in London.
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5. |
Lockdown Time Diary Page
04:00
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Never have I seen the world like this,
never have I felt so many mixed emotions all at once…
Monday, Tuesday: no way will they differ!
Wednesday, Thursday: what else could they be?
Never have I thought I’d live like this,
never have I had so many time to assess what’s worthwhile…
Monday, Tuesday: no way will they differ!
Wednesday, Thursday: what else could they be?
So Friday’s the time, Friday we’re all in love:
sing along with old Bob, it’s been time since he’s got the cure.
And when Saturday’s gone, Sunday’s all we have got…
but Sunday’s just the same as the rest.
Never have I seen the world like this,
(...Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday…)
never have I felt so many mixed emotions all at once…
(...Friday, Saturday, Sunday…)
Monday, Tuesday: no way will they differ!
Wednesday, Thursday: what else could they be?
Friday’s the time, Friday we’re all in love:
sing along with old Bob, it’s been time since he’s got the cure.
And when Saturday’s gone, Sunday’s all we have got…
but Sunday’s just the same as the rest.
When Saturday’s gone, Sunday’s all we have got…
but Sunday’s just the same as the rest.
So we can always do the best we can.
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Roberto Ventimiglia Rome, Italy
"Pursuing artistic freedom since 1982".
🇬🇧 Born in 1982, Roberto Ventimiglia is a classically
trained composer writing both pop-oriented tunes and contemporary (neo)classical music.
🇮🇹 Nato nel 1982, Roberto Ventimiglia è un compositore italiano di formazione classica che scrive sia brani pop che musica (neo)classica contemporanea.
... more
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