Tilted

Look at me.
Still leaning.
Still here.

White stone under Italian skies,
centuries pass before my eyes.
I started leaning long ago,
eight hundred years — and here I stand.

Everybody looks.
Everybody stares.
How far can I lean?
Nobody dares to guess.

Tilted 
maybe someday I'll fall.
Tilted 
still above it all.
Year after year,
I hold my ground.
The whole world waits...
but I'm still around.

Crowds are gathering down below,
cameras ready for the show.
Hands reach out toward the sky,
holding me up — at least they try.

Tilted 
maybe someday I'll fall.
Tilted 
still above it all.
Year after year,
I hold my ground.
The whole world waits...
but I'm still around.

Generations come and go.
Faces change below.
I have watched the centuries pass 
and I'm still here.

Tilted 
maybe someday I'll fall.
Tilted 
still above it all.
Italian sky,
the bells still sound.
Let the whole world watch...
I'm still around.