And around the road, the old city, he was looking for a woman, lying in the crowd, her
hand.
Fish are black, the unadult, and these pleasures that kill whistled close to each and every
man.
And if a station waited between the trains, her hands full of coins and chicken, I'd
go down toward the sand.
We heard talk of how they were chasing ghosts from cathedrals, so not to turn pages from
books, lifted on carved wooden stands.
And the trains will sit quietly in the stations, and they'll sit until the sun burns through
the cloud, across the sea.
And so if, amongst that old southern city, you really have no manner, I'll be gone.
And so if, amongst that old southern city, you really have no manner, I'll be gone.
03:53
05:11
02:53
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