Текст песни
It was the hour where the night is golden, and we were sitting at the pub
Talking about art and faith, but really just making jokes about moxie
The whole time we were thinking of reasons not to quit
Hoping none sounded too convincing
Little is worthy of perfection
The leaf bed of a garden hiding place, sleeping with eyes open
And the resonance of spruce and maple
To name a few things
Somehow free beers kept coming: a sovereign and uncomplicated good
Our faces were Christmas red and got redder as we laughed
At imagined pick-up lines from American men with Celtic knot work tattoos
Suddenly the place felt like home, which is to say we felt captive in it
The mahogany slanting inward and the second-hand smoke
That moments ago an aging marine held tightly inside him
A beacon in the crowd. Here it seemed okay to hate yourself
As long as you did not say so, as long as you chose
Some pieces to tear and did it quietly
One of us said something (or maybe just thought something)
About truths we cannot repeat or un-see. And we played the game
Where you flip the coaster and catch it, mid air, still talking
About trauma and risk and whether feeling whole is a prize in a case
Or something that breaks the fall when you let go
The marine seemed to be listening. He was famous of course
For his unwanted advances, but the cigarette cloud around him shimmered
In an Irish stained glass sort of way. And the openings in the gutters
And the black of the alcoves appeared to widen as if making a confession
In a language we had forgotten