Song | A Setting Sun |
Artist | Grand Archives |
Album | The Grand Archives |
作曲 : Lewis | |
We won't need twenty steps today, | |
the gallery it swims away | |
in Monday shoes. | |
It's awful tempting, might black, | |
the way the words run down your back, | |
beneath the gentle sway of paper lantern moons. | |
Could you be quick or be, | |
could you be quick or be tired. | |
The tock, the tick of it, | |
atop the funeral pyre. | |
We're in the thick of it, | |
so bite the brick of it all. | |
We gnaw through limbs to extricate ourselves, | |
from where we stand and where we fell, | |
when we don't know how | |
to sidsetep when tiny guns | |
have made their way through the best of us, | |
beneath the gentle sway of paper latern moons. | |
Could you be quick or be, | |
could you be quick or be tired. | |
The tock, the tick of it, | |
atop the funeral pyre. | |
We're in the thick of it, | |
so bite the brick of it all. | |
Your tithing teeth have never sung, | |
a fitting tune for a setting sun. | |
I know your ghost is somewhere good. | |
We haven't seen and we'll never know, | |
where summer sleeps and the springtime goes. | |
We only hope it's somewhere good. |
zuò qǔ : Lewis | |
We won' t need twenty steps today, | |
the gallery it swims away | |
in Monday shoes. | |
It' s awful tempting, might black, | |
the way the words run down your back, | |
beneath the gentle sway of paper lantern moons. | |
Could you be quick or be, | |
could you be quick or be tired. | |
The tock, the tick of it, | |
atop the funeral pyre. | |
We' re in the thick of it, | |
so bite the brick of it all. | |
We gnaw through limbs to extricate ourselves, | |
from where we stand and where we fell, | |
when we don' t know how | |
to sidsetep when tiny guns | |
have made their way through the best of us, | |
beneath the gentle sway of paper latern moons. | |
Could you be quick or be, | |
could you be quick or be tired. | |
The tock, the tick of it, | |
atop the funeral pyre. | |
We' re in the thick of it, | |
so bite the brick of it all. | |
Your tithing teeth have never sung, | |
a fitting tune for a setting sun. | |
I know your ghost is somewhere good. | |
We haven' t seen and we' ll never know, | |
where summer sleeps and the springtime goes. | |
We only hope it' s somewhere good. |