On the forecourts of French libraries from Reignac to Marseilles The rain rattles small cars, clouds drape over backseats I am a photograph in your satchel, between a paperback and cigarettes I am the dead bird on the gravel, neck snapped from last night’s Northwesterly But no peace, no closure But no peace, no closure Beside these roads that halt like jetties, beneath circling murders are leafless trees Drowning at the knees; some burnt to the fingertips And here my tracks sink, end, return as I walked in and out of you And here my tracks sink, end, return as I walked in and out of you But no peace, no closure But no peace, no closure Driving back through the town The road map-pinned by Pharmacie signs winking up-road The cars slice the afternoon with a guillotine slush As it bleeds into a night peppered by stars and planes to Japan And the changing of gears jilts the cats from the walls The truth lives with you The truth lives with you But no peace, no closure But no peace, no closure But no peace, no closure But no peace, no closureTeksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
