Anastasia Liaropoulou
The nights grow cold,
My search for gold
Is leading nowhere
Whichever lonely road I take
It seems to go where
It’s a fight to survive just until tomorrow
How can I display
What I know I’m worthy of
When they turn me away
The doors are closed to such as I
A boy from nowhere
But not to those who merely buy
The right to go where
They’ll be met with respect,
Not humiliation.
A man’s place on earth
I have come to realize
Is decided by birth
So what’s the future
No matter where I go
I will still belong…
In Andalucia
Where we don’t know where
The next penny’s coming from
Something’s wrong
/ðə naɪts grəʊ kəʊld,
maɪ sɜːʧ fɔː gəʊld
ɪz ˈliːdɪŋ ˈnəʊweə
wɪʧˈɛvə ˈləʊnli rəʊd aɪ teɪk
ɪt siːmz tuː gəʊ weə
ɪts ə faɪt tuː səˈvaɪv ʤʌst ənˈtɪl təˈmɒrəʊ
haʊ kæn aɪ dɪsˈpleɪ
wɒt aɪ nəʊ aɪm ˈwɜːði ɒv
wɛn ðeɪ tɜːn miː əˈweɪ
ðə dɔːz ɑː kləʊzd tuː sʌʧ æz aɪ
ə bɔɪ frɒm ˈnəʊweə
bʌt nɒt tuː ðəʊz huː ˈmɪəli baɪ
ðə raɪt tuː gəʊ weə
ðeɪl biː mɛt wɪð rɪsˈpɛkt,
nɒt hju(ː)ˌmɪlɪˈeɪʃən.
ə mænz pleɪs ɒn ɜːθ
aɪ hæv kʌm tuː ˈrɪəlaɪz
ɪz dɪˈsaɪdɪd baɪ bɜːθ
səʊ wɒts ðə ˈfjuːʧə
nəʊ ˈmætə weər aɪ gəʊ
aɪ wɪl stɪl bɪˈlɒŋ…
ɪn andalucia
weə wiː dəʊnt nəʊ weə
ðə nɛkst ˈpɛniz ˈkʌmɪŋ frɒm
ˈsʌmθɪŋz rɒŋ/