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On the black |
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Sunday afternoon sun is pale like the moon |
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When you look to the sky, holy, holy why |
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All fades into blue on the black |
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Sunday afternoon |
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No good time to walk alone on a bike riding home |
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When you look to the sky, holy, holy why |
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All fades into blue on the black |
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Sunday afternoon |
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Bad luck comes or just a car on the right side, hears a call |
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And sees a blackbird flying low, above her head no mistletoe |
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Nothing really moves on black |
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Sunday afternoons |
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You wake up in a water bed and on the back of your head |
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A lump but just a tiny hole, almost no light at all in here |
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When you call you can't hear your own voice at all |
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They gather up, something's wrong |
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They ask around, no one knows |
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Well, have you been where the rivers cross by the water in the moss? |
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Nothing really moves on black |
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Sunday afternoons |
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Sun is pale like the moon |
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When you look to the sky, holy, holy, holy, holy why |
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All fades into blue on black |
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Sunday afternoons |
