Distant solar systems and all the minor planets Know nothing of our satellites and 747s Fireworks that recreate the birth of constellations Dying suns that laugh at shotgun powder imitations
When I am a sailor, and the sky, a pitch-black ocean I’ll look down at my bleeding heart and wish I were a Vulcan
Its Byzantine structures, churches and all All of our treasure of oil and gold All of the empires crumble in stone Great architecture gilded in chrome
God and I, we correspond with intermittent letters I send postcards from the road, and now and then he answers Echoes northern city-states, and all the mighty kingdoms Head of sewing needles on an unending horizon
I knew there was a scene before you Ever thought to sing it And call yourself a bastard And I know you like an orphan
'Cause great men of science and literature Don’t impress me, what can I offer? Because I am a chisel in your hand Screaming at marble from a microphone standTeksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
