Maybe tomorrow my muse will come,
Maybe such a word full of hope,
My muse runs away when the grey sky,
dirty and smelly streets come my way,
She gets smaller and smaller,
melting her essence into the drain,
when cursing is the music
that the streets play,
Surely my muse will come tomorrow
with her smile bringing
sun on the colourless sky,
Maybe I’ll be home for her!
Home such a comfy feeling.