Deja Vu

Bruce Cockburn

Deja vu 
Glass cafe faces 
Fade into the wash 
Of brick-dust-yellow afternoon 

Deja vu 
Slow lines on pages 
Shape words like echoes 
Of a ball bounced in an empty street 

Deja vu 
Sun on hair dancing 
To breeze-borne snatches 
Of a lost music box melody