the parade will not pass our way

i like to watch the red leaves fall,
and dream of days gone by,

"i said: "kiss me, you're beautifull
these are truly the last days"
you grabbed my hand and we fell into it
like a daydream or a fever "

the clouds invade the valley,
in the darkness of the morning,
and i watch them drown together,
the rain hits me in the face,
i feel more alive when i'm cold,
and less afraid in the shadows,

i watch you as you ride by,
with your gypsy caravan bike parade,
the tents in doorways,
and outstretched hands,
hallelujah is the only word i know,
that can describe the feeling,
of warmth, and being,

back then, we didn't know the words...

we just sang the songs.

now there is nothing left but a reflection,
would you know the way home,
when the streets are dry,

somewhere our wires got crossed,
you ended up on a shipwreck,
and i ended up on a runaway train,

all my bottles are laying in the gutter,
and i walk over them like leaves,
there are no jars full of saints,
in this closet.

i came this close, to making my bed,
in the outstretched arms,
of the southern pacific,
and rolling out of here,
like a cloud,
in a bed of clanging steel.

the boats sound lonely,
on the road of the river,
and her tears will never dry,
on the land,
across the bridge,
i see all of your sweet faces,
dancing drunkenly,
in my vagrant mirror,
and the twist and bend,
in impossible unity


where did we go,
did the record stop playing,
did we forget our stop,
and pass into a strange land,
i no longer know,
the language of rivers,
the song of birds,
or the heart of trees