|
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 . . . |