| Across the town on the other hill
|
| Your lights glow from a different world
|
| You always found a place to hide — nails and cross to lay beside;
|
| With all the ghosts that we denied
|
| Now, in rippled arcs across the sky, the great white birds of winter fly;
|
| And the wheel turns, and people change — scattered ashes to the wind
|
| And there’s no pain, there’s no pain, there’s no pain
|
| A dry river in the blazing sun. |
| .
|
| Your parched face and your callused hands
|
| Behind us lie the arid lands
|
| To say too much — well, it was not our way
|
| And in the end there wasn’t much to say;
|
| The scars are healed now anyway
|
| And there’s no pain.. . |
| a dry river in the blazing sun. |
| .
|
| And Abraham rose, took his only son, and knife and tinder
|
| In his hand, and setting out across the desert and up into
|
| The scrubland hills, he bound the boy Isaac to the stone
|
| Raised the blade and waited for the miracle
|
| But the wind blows silent across the hills, across the dead and the empty hills
|
| Dead, like the god that never came
|
| Like your face, the day that you turned away
|
| There’s no pain. |
| .. a dry river in the blazing sun. |
| . |