| This tree grows figs from trunk and branch
|
| These walls are white and sharp, the shadows clean
|
| This air is young, these hours long
|
| This morning’s perfect, something’s wrong
|
| The shirtless sky, the burning bricks
|
| The quiet burden of your absence
|
| Knowing that your idea of bliss is days like this
|
| The shirtless sky, the burning bricks
|
| The quiet burden of your absence
|
| Knowing that your idea of bliss is days like this
|
| La la la la
|
| La la la la
|
| A ripe fig broken in your hands
|
| A flash of perfect teeth, a hint of smile
|
| The ancient streets you’re standing in
|
| The sun still searches for your skin
|
| The weeks go by, the sprinklers hiss
|
| My heart is thirsty in your absence
|
| Knowing that your idea of bliss is days like this
|
| What can I say?
|
| Six weeks away and I’ve nothing much to show
|
| But you know that I will try to capture this morning light for you in your
|
| absence
|
| Knowing that your idea of bliss is days like this
|
| The shirtless sky, the burning bricks
|
| The quiet burden of your absence
|
| Knowing that your idea of bliss is days like this
|
| La la la la
|
| La la la la |