| I, I look out of my window |
| From my room on the 15th floor |
| And watch the cars pass by |
| Rain, raindrops like diamonds coming down |
| Different kinds of music mixed up |
| A roary friday night |
| A girl, a girl running for shelter to a porch |
| She’s checking out her make-up briefly |
| In a shop window |
| The beggar stumbling down the sidewalk |
| To the mission post just around the corner |
| To dry his worn out clothes |
| It’s just a street in another town |
| Another country but the same old sounds |
| It looks familiar like I’ve been here before |
| But it’s another hotelroom on another hotel-floor |
| I just turn off the light |
| And go to bed |
| Silence, there’s nothing but the raindrops falling down |
| The last bus has made its stop |
| And took the drunks away |
| Now the street’s completely deserted |
| Without the flashing neon-lights |
| It looks so cold and gray |
| Tomorrow my suitcase packed with one more towel |
| And when the sweepers clean the street up |
| I’ll be miles away |
| And later, I will look out of my window |
| Another crowd walks the scenery |
| But the play didn’t really change |