How sad they are, The promises we never return to They stay in our mouths Roughen the tongue, lead lives of their own Houses built and unwittingly lived in A succession of milk bottles brought to the door Every morning and taken inside
And which one is real? The music in the composer's ear Or the lapsed piece the orchestra plays? The world is a blurred version of itself Marred, lovely, and flawed It is enoughTeksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
