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ArtistLaten we hangen met m’n matties in de osso, laat, regen op de ruiten, stad praat, straat nog paraat. Fakka met de crew, iedereen met z’n verhaal, van niks naar iets, dromen zwaar in de schaal. Doekoe in m’n jas, maar het kwam niet vanzelf, lange nachten buiten, niemand die ons helpt. Nu alles loopt fosho, maar ik voel nog die tijd, toen we hingen zonder doel, maar met vuur in de strijd.
In my sweet dreams, wet street, rain coming down,
an old car with a trailer, the whole neighborhood looks again.
Three guys walk in silence, no talk, no jokes,
it says enough—you can feel the weight in the line.
In the back of the class I was never that well-behaved,
now I walk out here, the city teaches me my language.
No proper sentences, everything comes from the gutter,
vowels full of mud, every word raw and heavy.
Let’s hang out, but nothing feels light,
rain on the stones, everything in my sight.
What’s up with the world, but it doesn’t answer back,
the street speaks louder than the classroom ever could.
Money or dreams, makes little difference,
everything rolls on, but time stands still.
You see it in that car, in the way they stand—
sometimes silence says more than a thousand men.
