Up above gathered on a
field of clouds
crowded a lot down in the lowlands
Waiting for their time
Waiting and calling, calling out for rain
to leave the skies down in the lowlands
Masters of the field
Wings wind set in the
teeth of the wind
The old beasts feathered wild beasts
Masters of the field.
Eagle dancers, wings that
shape the wind
Carving the clouds into spirit
Sufis of the air
Dervish dancers summoning
the sun
To tint the mist don on the lowlands
Masters of the field
Old beasts, feathered,
wild beasts
Masters of the field
Overland, above the dark
seas
Wild refugees flee the seasons
Drifting beyond the night clouds
In the wake of their guiding star
There he goes the famous
gander
Eating fog, dancing with witches
There he goes, the famous old gander
who longed to leave
If you hear the sound of
our voices
Through the busy murmur of the Earth
You will know the meaning of our words
Praying for Spring to the ether
Night and day the
travellers fly
(Winter and Spring have their reasons)
Sailing through sunrise and setting wild wind
And through steel blue air
Here he comes, the highest
gander
Eating fog, dancing with witches
Here he comes the famous old gander
Who longed to leave
We don't feel the warmth
of your breath
Through the icy edges of the Earth
We don't hear the rhythms of your call
Signalling the Spring in the ether
Faith may not be such a
bad thing.
Hope can still feel pretty good.
I'm as mad as any hatter,
I feel safer touching wood.
I like totem poles and
icons
(icon tact is de rigeur).
So ring dem bells and pump that organ,
chants for him and hymns for her.
'Bracadabra hocus locus,
magic mush, no room for doubt
as wailing walls induce psychosis
(beat your braincells inside out).
Transcendental art's
religion,
thinking you'll improve your mind,
when all it does (if you're in luck)
is camouflage the daily grind.
Nature's harmony's a
discord
if you listen with both ears.
Poor Gaia's up to here in white noise.
She cannot assuage your fears.
Superstition's like
religion;
bonsai version - faintly sad.
And I know that (I must admit it)
touching wood is a bit mad.
Le Chat qui Peche,
Rue de la Huchette.
Paris at night,
and the strains of a ghost saxophone.
Juliette and Miles
Black and white city.
Paris by night,
and the ghosts of two people in love.
I'll be dreaming again,
always dreams of yesterdays.
Those days live on,
safe here in my heart.
Cherchez la femme,
slips through a doorway,
out of the night
to the warmth of a new lover's arms.
Rue St Benoit.
La route enchantee.
Indigo nights,
and the ghost of the moon in the Seine.
I'll be dreaming again,
always dreams of yesterdays.
Those days live on,
safe here in my heart.
Bring out your foghorns,
the mist has descended.
The alley's never been blinder.
What light there is,
is too diffused
to indicate any direction.
What light there is,
tells us nothing.
Deep in the forest
the omens are bad,
a cloud passes over the moon
Devil Wind
bends the trees,
a cloud passes over the moon.
And the moon takes a peep
when the Gypsy girl sings,
and her song rises up
from the dark to the light,
like smoke to the sky,
when the Gypsy girl sings
at the river's edge.
Deep in the forest
the omens are bad,
a cloud passes over the moon.
White wolf waits,
grey wolf howls
at the girl by the river's edge.
The bullet head boys
with their baby blue eyes,
their donner und blitzen,
the lily white gadje
religiously hatching their plots
in the eyries of eagles.
But the moon's keeping
watch
at the Gypsy girl sings,
sees her song rising up
like smoke to the sky
from the dark to the light,
when the Gypsy girl sings
at the river's edge.
Like the sun on the forest
her song rises up, from
the ashes of Auschwitz,
the death camp at Lety,
the white cliffs of Dover,
the song of the Roma
lives on and on...
Trees grow tall
though the winds blow cold,
tall trees grow.
Tall trees grow
where the cold wind blow,
trees grow tall.
You might have a lot to
say.
There might be a price to pay.
Just beware.
They might smile and nod
their heads,
while they wish that you were dead.
Just beware.
Your friends might not be
what they seem.
Take it from me,
If you're not careful
you might get hurt one last time.
It's just a warning,
beware.
Don't get caught off your
guard.
Evil lurks in all our hearts.
Just beware.
You won't last very long,
even if you are strong.
Just beware.
Don't trust anyone.
They might be your enemy.
If you're not careful,
you might get hurt one last time.
It's just a warning,
beware,
beware,
beware.
Cuckoo Madame
with your teddy bear eye,
yellow fingers clinging to the chain link fence.
Bombers above you.
Bombers behind you.
Disapproval hounds you,
ugly rumour surrounds you.
Solitary madam,
we never understood, you
never told us of your battle
with the cuckoo baby blues.
Cuckoo Madame,
it's no wonder you're shy.
You're Greta Garbo,
you're the witch of Salem.
You're anti-social, and
you are too bloody lonely
for the likes of us.
We never knew of your
battle
with the cuckoo baby blues.
When you saw that egg
crack
it froze your blood.
You knew you had to fly then,
had to say goodbye,
had to fly before you saw another mother
feed your chick.
You knew it would break
your heart.
You knew it would break your heart.
When bombers bomb again,
I need your lullaby.
Fires are burning,
The nightmare's begun.
The world is dark again,
I need your lullaby.
Sleep has gone.
Night is long again.
sing me your song.
Let me sleep.
Bring me peace.
When bombers bomb again,
we'll need your lullaby.
Children cry.
Houses burn again.
Once more.
Sing songs to soothe them,
to dry their tears,
to drown the screams of war.
The world's gone wrong
again,
I need your lullaby.
Night is long.
and sleep's just a dream.
Sing your song.
stay close to me.
Sing to me.
Hushabye.
The world is dark again,
I need your lullaby.
Sleep has gone.
night is much too long again.
Sing me your song.
Let me sleep.
Bring me peace.
Open your window
lend an ear
and then
pull back the curtain
hurry
so you can hear
Listen to the
hum
as it rises
riding the breeze
leaving gravity's children
agrounded
Onwards and upwards
that's the way
ever on
beyond the highest plateau
that's OK
There's a reason why some
people float
sometimes
are floored
God knows this reason
that's what gods are for
Press on your window
feel the pane
How insensitive have
seemed
when he told me that he loved me.
How unmoved and cold I must have seemed
when he told me so sincerely.
Why, he must have asked,
did I just
turn and stare in icy silence?
What was I to say? What can you say
When a love affair is over?
Now he's gone away, but
I'm alone
with the memory of his last look.
Vague and drawn and sad, I see it still,
all his heartbreak in that last look.
Why, he must have asked,
did I just
turn and stare in icy silence?
What was I to do? What can one do?
When a love affair is over.
I love suspense,
the thrill of the unknown.
What will I say?
I can't predict.
Where will all this lead?
I don't want to know.
Just take a chance,
things can't get much worse.
Who knows?
They might improve.
There's always hope.
When will I learn to trust myself,
embrace mystery,
not be afraid?
Hold on,
can't walk faster,
can't get up the hill.
Oy! You!
wait for me,
I'm out of breath,
I'm ill.
Slow down.
Slow down.
Hey! You!
Bin that Bebop.
Ditch the dancing.
Night's for lying down.
Bit that Bebop.
Ditch the dancing.
Don that duvet,
Cook the cocoa.
Turn that music down!
Slow down.
Slow down.
Cut those capers.
Keep your hair on.
I should worry.
You should coco.
Dirty stop-out.
Why? Oh why? Oh why?
Slow down.
Slow down.
Night's for lying down.
(Sweet dreams,
old chap,
sweet dreams).
Life is sheep,
for wool and lots of meat
we buy and sell.
And pets are just a luxury;
ornaments for you and me.
Life is sheep.
If you live on a farm,
instead of names,
the animals all have numbers
So you won't get too attached.
Hiroshima
Nagasaki
Nagasaki Hiroshima
arigato Vanunu
ko n nichiwa Mossadegh
arigato Mordechai
ko n nichiwa Mohammad
Hiroshima Nagasaki
Hiroshima
Nagasaki
ko n nichiwa arigato
Nagasaki Hiroshima
Nagasaki Hiroshima
arigato Vanunu
ko n nichiwa Mordechai
ko n nichiwa Mohammad
Hiroshima Nagasaki
ko n nichiwa arigato
Overnight
Upstream
Downwind
Overland
No-one knows
whose turn it will be tomorrow.
The skies above the refugee camp are grey.
Dreams hastily scrawled on the walls.
Beneath the slogans'
the children from the city
play their game.
Death.
No-one knows, no-one knows.
The heroes of today are
announced
dead
on the evening news.
Ordinary people make the headlines
for a few seconds,
only to vanish
without a trace
in the current
of another day's events.
No-one knows, no-one knows.
But I know that tomorrow's
victims
will bring a new dawn
closer.
No-one knows.
