Madrid in the Room

Clouds hung low above Madrid,

rain kept tapping at the glass.

You came home with the evening on you,

with your shopping from the street.

Then your little kitchen filled with gold,

small as prayer, warm as a hand,

and somewhere in that circle of light

the whole wide world turned kind again.

No grand occasion,

no need for anything grand,

just a room, a table,

and the grace of your hands.

Kitchen light in Madrid,

shining through the rain,

turning ordinary hours

into comfort once again.

While the dark moves round the window

and the cold stays far behind,

there's a kitchen light in Madrid,

and somehow it reaches mine.

Maybe there's music playing low,

maybe only plates and spoons,

maybe laughter, maybe the oven

humming out its tender tune.

And if lasagna warms the night,

no one gets to call it wrong;

some meals feed the body,

some make the heart grow strong.

Far away,

I still can see

how tenderness

lives in simple things.

Kitchen light in Madrid,

shining through the rain,

turning ordinary hours

into comfort once again.

While the dark moves round the window

and the cold stays far behind,

there's a kitchen light in Madrid,

and somehow it reaches mine.

Isabel,

if songs can travel,

let this one stay a little while

by your doorway, by your window,

by the softness of your smile.

Not to ask for more than this,

not to trouble, not to claim,

only to bless the rain-wet evening

and say your lovely name.

Kitchen light in Madrid,

steady, warm and true,

making miles feel less like miles

the way kind hearts can do.

While the night leans on the rooftops

and the city dreams in gold,

there's a kitchen light in Madrid,

and I don't feel quite so cold.

Kitchen light in Madrid…

keep shining tonight.