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L'allemand used to visit me in Paris, in Paris |
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I remember the men, I remember the houses in Paris |
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His station nearby, I was his afternoons |
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We didn't mind, we shared everything, everything, Paris |
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He'd come in looking for comfort, leave again looking to the left and the right |
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Did we see too much, say too little |
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Stepping over every dark thing |
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Would it all be true tomorrow? |
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But he loves me |
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Framing his face with my hands in the doorway |
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I try to decipher the friend from the foe in his eyes |
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A man's skin will be blown back with time and confusion |
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'Til it gathers by his ears in the same human shallows like sand at the sea |
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Did he hear too much, say too little |
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Could any year recover what we lost in these? |
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With the hum of the war in the run of the day, but |
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I walk with my head held high and naked in the sun |
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Claiming these streets for myself |
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I walk with my head held high and naked in the sun |
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Claiming these streets for myself, |
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Again |
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I am the unchanging narrative, I don't resolve neatly |
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And I am the unchained melody, the current of the need to survive |
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And I go on looking for comfort, I can no longer see to the left or the right, but |
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I walk with my head held high and naked in the sun |
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Claiming these streets for myself |
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I walk with my head held high and naked in the sun |
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Claiming these streets for myself, |
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Again |
