The Soviet

God is love and love is real
But the dead are dancing with the dead
And whatever's charming disappears
While all things lovely only hurt my head
As I gather stones from fields
Like pearls of water on my fingers' ends

And I carefully wrap them up in boxes
Safe from windows, from things that break

As the night-time shined like day it saw my sorry face
And hair a mess but it liked me best that way
Besides, how else could I confess?
When I looked down like if to pray
Well, I was looking down her dress

Good God!
Please catch for us the foxes
In the vineyard... the little foxes

So turn your ears, you musicians
To silence because they only come out when it's quiet
Their tails brushing over your eyelids
Oh wake up, sleepers, and rise from the dead!
Or the fur that they shed that's gonna lay on your bed
In a delicate orange-ish cinnamon red

Ah, but I don't need this!
I don't need this
My doubts, my loves
I don't need this



Credits
Writer(s): Richard Mazzotta, Christopher Robert Kleinberg, Aaron Jonathan Weiss, Michael Yusef Weiss, Daniel Steven Pishock
Lyrics powered by www.musixmatch.com

Link