Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Listen Close, artist - Horrorshow.
Date of issue: 01.08.2013
Song language: English
Listen Close |
«Read my palm and see the evil of my forefathers» |
«I can’t take it y’all, I can feel the city breathing |
Chest heaving, against the flesh of the evening,» |
«It's deep, I heard the city breathe in its sleep» |
«Read my palm and see the evil of my forefathers» |
«I can’t take it y’all, I can feel the city breathing |
Chest heaving, against the flesh of the evening,» |
«It's deep, I heard the city breathe in its sleep» |
«Read my palm and see the evil of my forefathers» |
«I can’t take it y’all, I can feel the city breathing |
Chest heaving, against the flesh of the evening,» |
«It's deep, I heard the city breathe in its sleep» |
Can you feel the change in the air? |
I never could, took a second look now I see it everywhere |
Today moving so fast, becomes yesteryear |
And if you can’t keep up, well then you disappear |
I see the lonely old buildings round my way |
Slowly fall into a state of disrepair |
Then the real estate buy it up, sell it off, knock it down |
Then it’s gone like it was never there, does anybody care? |
Wood, brickwork and steel laid bare |
Like the city’s broken bones exposed to the open air |
And there I am, the heir apparent |
Surveying the damage as my neighbourhood vanishes |
Without a trace — an unsolved mystery |
Whole decades erased instantly |
No room for sympathy in the pursuit of efficiency |
The legacy of a colonial dynasty |
In a city still growing out it’s infancy |
Built on invasion, displacement and misery |
Foundations laid by blood, sweat and industry |
Of convicts inspired by aspirations of liberty |
Before that history goes to the grave |
I listen close to the whispers of the ghosts of yesterday |
From beneath the coats of paint they speak |
Empty shop-fronts the faded evidence of a generation’s dreams |
And on a still night, if you listen close |
You can still hear the whispers of the ghosts |
Seek it out and you’ll find that it’s all around you |
The sound of that which was handed down |
And on a still night, if you listen close |
You can still hear the whispers of the ghosts |
Know where we’ve been to grasp where we’re headed |
Looking at the past from the present |
And on a still night, if you listen close |
You can still hear the whispers of the ghosts |
«I can’t take it y’all, I can feel the city breathing |
Chest heaving, against the flesh of the evening,» |
«Read my palm and see the evil of my forefathers» |
Now the signs in the street say for lease and for sale |
An invitation to dream, a reminder of those who failed |
A long way from land grants, rations and dirt trails |
Disillusionment’s still in fashion in New South Wales |
Rusted iron, rubble and chipped paint |
Signs of urban decay in a withered landscape |
I see it everyday, the heritage fades |
Gentrification, nothing’s gonna get in the way |
Of this concept that we call progress |
Locked in a contest with our superiority complex |
Monuments to man’s dominance are the imagery |
Scaffolding sketches out the blueprints of visionaries |
In a city still growing out it’s infancy |
Built on invasion, displacement and bigotry |
Foundations laid by cold-blooded killing sprees |
Severed heads sent back on ships for the king to see |
Before that history goes to the grave |
I listen close to the whispers of the ghosts of yesterday |
From beneath the coats of paint they speak |
Empty shop-fronts the faded evidence of a generation’s dreams |
I stay playing these beats on the same train platform |
That Lawson waited on watching faces in the street |
Except that somehow the scene appears differently |
Soaked under the cold pale glow of electricity |
So, before that history goes to the grave |
I listen close to the whispers of the ghosts of yesterday |
From beneath the coats of paint they speak |
Empty shop-fronts the faded evidence of a generation’s dreams |
But I know this city, I’ve felt its heart beat |
Watched the life breathe through the cracks in the concrete |
Where it stops is beyond me |
And on a still night, if you listen close |
You can still hear the whispers of the ghosts |
Seek it out and you’ll find that it’s all around you |
The sound of that which was handed down |
And on a still night, if you listen close |
You can still hear the whispers of the ghosts |
Know where we’ve been to grasp where we’re headed |
Looking at the past from the present |