Sul lungotevere, con la vista dei barconi, il grigio mosso del fiume, i ponti solenni, lei era grondante di pioggia, come un’innamorata. Nelle mani acerbe registratore e copertina, ormai molle, di Secrets of the beehive…
My dearest David, will you remember me?
Messages ran all over town
Words without sound
Condemned me
And left me for dead
All over again
It wasn’t the first time, but this time
Things will never be the same.
Ride, ride the very thought into the ground
In the church of lost and found
The angels cry
Ride, ride until the darkness closes in
Until the ravaged soul begins
To reflect the open skies, ride.
The chapel was burned
Razed to the ground
From the darkest of clouds
Small birds tumbled like rain
Time and again
You may go charging at windmills
In these days
Absurdities never change.
Ride, ride the very thought into the ground
In the church of lost and found
The angels cry
Ride, ride until the darkness closes in
Until the ravaged soul begins
To reflect the open skies, ride.
In the thick of woods
The word is taboo
In the darkest of continents
Light can deceive you.
Ride, saddle up your thoughts and run to ground
In this world of lost and found
The eagle flies, ride.
(David Sylvian)
