Ode to the paddekote

Beer flows rich in this small tavern.
I store these moments in my memory.
People laugh
an people drink.
Forgetting the sorrow of the day that went by.
I hear the braking of a glass
and turn my head.
Nobody yells
Nobody is upset.
After a sip of there glass filled with the cold golden beer they rejoin the neverending discutions.
Nobody giver another thought to the minuscul pieces of chrital like glass spread all over the red-brown tavern floor.
They got lost between the dust and the smoked up cigaretts and will be the wury for the cleaninglady tomorowmorning.
The glazing eyes of the already half-drunk people at the typical Belgian bar look around to find themself cought into a new discution.
I just sit at the small wooden table and I observe them.
The hard working people behind the bar run around trying to keep pleasing the neverending group of custumors, knowing that there place in this world is in there hands.
People come
and people go.
Here in this smalltown tavern.
They talk about the most useless things.
Feeling that they're getting more drunk with every glass that crosses there mouth.
The intens atmosphere that hangs between these old walls is sensational, it makes the world pass by and stops time.
People forget

and people remember.
They look back at there live remembering a smalltown tavern that crossed there pad sometimes and they long for another glim of that place.
As they continue living there lives, the live at tha tarvern doesn't change.
The costumers yelling there order, my parents serving them, the neverending noice of people in deep discution and accasionally the braking of a meaningless glass.
This tavern in this smalltown I call home, the smell of the air, the noice from the coffeemachine, the soft yellow lights above the bar.
It is were my live turns around.
People watch
and people think,
but will they ever know ...