
Date of issue: 11.10.2004
Record label: David Tibet
Song language: English
Hooves |
Horses are riding into her arms |
She lost her own way years ago |
Her sister calls her from the far side of night |
And she falls with that call |
The only way out: |
She tells me «I love you» |
But it’s only a game |
So she slides from the silence |
She’s fixing a time |
To move back into darkness; |
Again with a smile |
«Don't touch me — I’m falling» |
She laughs in the night |
«Don't catch me — I’ll return |
When the wheel comes around |
You see we’re all born to suffer |
We’re all born to fall |
In the fading world |
That calls us to Zero» |
She touches my body; |
I crouch up to die |
Down the ramblers we’re walking; |
In Reykjavik, talking |
She’s reading a book |
Finished years ago |
She’s tearing up paper — she’s tearing up life |
But she only starts thinking |
When her blood is brown |
Gold is the colour she promised to wear |
But Christ’s blood turns black |
His body she bears |
But she dipped him in water, and she blackened the faith. |
It’s hard to believe them when they spit in your face |
And I don’t want to touch you; |
I don’t want to lie |
In the brownredgold slumber |
That you’ve taken to ride |
I remember I was thinking only of you |
And I built you a playground, |
It was built up with crosses. |
But you wanted a valley |
Where horse could run free |
We knew it was over when you stammered out lies |
It’s hard to keep riding when the world is on fire |
It’s hard to keep riding when your eyes fill with blood |
It’s hard to keep riding when your grip has grown slack |
It’s hard to keep riding when your network is sliding |
We were listening to lions at Flantern with James |
We were riding the trams to kneel at his wake |
Though Christ is impaled through the Cross with His hands |
You’d make your own gospel centred on hooves |
Christ I was thinking of Your bended arm: |
It is blue on the outside; |
it is blue on the inside |
You said as you buckled, as if you would die: |
There’s no point in living. |
there’s no point in life |
There’s spit on the bridle: there’s blood in the saddle |
And you slip in the shit — you shat in yourself |
And Christus is Equus — and Equus is floored |
You follow in footsteps made by a flower |
Then I wanted to touch you — |
But you’re destined to fall |
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