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[Verse 1: Solo] |
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Can you feel the change in the air? |
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I never could, took a second look now I see it everywhere, |
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Today moving so fast, becomes yesteryear, |
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And if you can't keep up, well then you disappear, |
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I see the lonely old buildings round my way, |
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Slowly fall into a state of disrepair, |
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Then the real estate buy it up, sell it off, knock it down, |
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Then it's gone like it was never there, does anybody care? |
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Wood, brickwork and steel laid bare, |
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Like the city's broken bones exposed to the open air, |
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And their I am, the heir apparent, |
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Surveying the damage as my neighbourhood vanishes, |
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Without a trace-an unsolved mystery, |
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Whole decades erased instantly, |
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No room for sympathy in the pursuit of efficiency, |
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The legacy of a colonial dynasty, |
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In a city still growing out it's infancy, |
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Built on invasion, displacement and misery, |
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Foundations laid by blood, sweat and industry, |
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Of convicts inspired by aspirations on liberty, |
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Before that history goes to the grave, |
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I listen close to the whispers of the ghosts of yesterday, |
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From beneath the coats of paint they speak, |
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Empty shop-fronts the faded evidence of a generation's dreams. |
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[Hook: Solo] |
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And on a still night, if you listen close, |
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You can still hear the whispers of the ghosts, |
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Seek it out and you'll find that it's all around you, |
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The sound of that which was handed down, |
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And on a still night, if you listen close, |
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You can still hear the whispers of the ghosts, |
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Know where we've been to grasp where we're headed, |
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Looking at the past from the present, |
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And on a still night, if you listen close, |
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You can still hear the whispers of the ghosts. |
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[Scratched Samples] |
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[Verse 2: Solo] |
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Now the signs in the street say for lease or for sale, |
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An invitation to dream, a reminder of those who failed, |
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A long way from land grants, rations and dirt trails, |
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Disillusionment's still in fashion in New South Wales, |
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Rusted iron, rubble and chipped paint, |
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Signs of urban decay in a withered landscape, |
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I see it everyday, the heritage fades, |
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Gentrification, nothing's gonna get in the way, |
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Of this concept that we call progress, |
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Locked in a contest with our superiority complex, |
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Monuments to man's dominance are the imagery, |
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Scaffolding sketches out the blueprints of visionaries, |
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In a city still growing out it's infancy, |
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Built on invasion, displacement and bigotry, |
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Foundations laid by cold-blooded killing spree's, |
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Severed heads sent back on ships for the king to see, |
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Before that history goes to the grave, |
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I listen close to the whispers of the ghosts of yesterday, |
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From beneath the coats of paint they speak, |
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Empty shop-fronts the faded evidence of a generation's dreams. |
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I stay playing these beats on the same train platform, |
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That Lawson waited on watching faces in the street, |
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Except that somehow the scene appears differently, |
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Soaked under the cold pale glow of electricity, |
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So, Before that history goes to the grave, |
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I listen close to the whispers of the ghosts of yesterday, |
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From beneath the coats of paint they speak, |
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Empty shop-fronts the faded evidence of a generation's dreams. |
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But I know this city, I've felt its heart beat, |
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Watched life breathe through the cracks in the concrete, |
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Where it stops is beyond me. |
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[Hook] |
