| When the thousand white wing pigeons spread their wings
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| And raise to the brave rise towards the cloudless sky
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| My faith for this lousy life starts to flame again
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| Pain seems to be so far away
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| Sane I will be drowned by the pure feelings, beatings
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| Hurtings seemed to be just history
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| I believe in life
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| The old paintings, faintings, the heat of makings makes me feel safe about the
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| ratings
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| The smell of old knowledge stops all my senses
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| The wave doesn’t call me, I’m a bit too far away
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| I’ve never seen the warmth you have in your hand
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| I’ve never seen the warmth you have in your hand
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| The crickets seem to like no tourists
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| Those purists of an intellectual way
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| Flying around, running the day, make my day
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| What would you say if your corners would be full of drunken grey faces
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| Taste of «grace» (…and red wine)
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| Everywhere you go with your workful flow
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| Now go, serve those servants, feed their holiday
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| (…so this is the productive day!)
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| We pigeons will be fed by them who lead this way to its colourful fade
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| Let the blooming flowers sway
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| And drunken the ones who just lay… around
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| With no bound to create an important sound of this tasty muddy red ground
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| Let me fly and see how the crowd comes and goes
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| In and out, when we just fly around
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| I’ve never seen the warmth you have in your hand
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| I’ve never seem to care I wasn’t there
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| Madness is spreading in minds
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| I’m out of these human kinds
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| I’ve never seen the warmth you have in your hand
|
| At the times of Phoenicia
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| When Zeus stole his daughter Europa
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| Into the euphoria of Divida Comedia like a lalalatina land…
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| I’m your user, man, you’re me user, girl
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| Can’t you see, that’s the only way to understand this purity of your open mind
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| A judge of any sign, while the pigeons fly so high…
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| I’ve never seen the warmth you have in your hand
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| I’ve never seem to care I wasn’t there
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| When I’m away from you
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| I know there’s nothing to do
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| I’ve never seen the warmth you have in your hand |