quarta-feira, abril 26, 2006

Verdi cries 

The man in 119
takes is tea all alone.
Mornings we all rise
to wireless Verdi cries.
I’m hearing opera
through the door.
The souls of men and women
impassioned all.
Their voices climb and fall,
battle trumpets call.
I fill the bath
and climb inside,

He will not touch their pastry
but everyday they bring him more.
Gold from the breakfast tray,
I steal them all away
and then go eat them
on the shore.

I draw a jackal-headed
woman in the sand,
sign of lover’s fate
sealed by jealous hate
then wash my hands in the sea.
With just three days more
I’d have just about learned
the entire score
to Aida.

Holidays must end,
as you know.
All is memory
taken home with me:
the opera,
the stolen tea,
the sand drawing,
the verging sea,
all years ago.

10.000 maniacs, vinil riscado, só ouvindo se percebe

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