They smell your heart
Such strange times, darling

And love is bludgeoned
against the pillars of the dead end

Love must be hidden in the attics

In this cold and twisted dead end
They keep fires aflame
with poems and songs as fuel
Don’t dare the danger of thinking

Such strange times, Darling

The one banging on the door so late at night
has come to kill the lantern
Light must be hidden in the attics

And then there are the butchers
waiting at the crossroads
With their bloody axes

Such strange times, Darling


and they surgically remove the smile from your lips
and the song from your mouth
Passion must be hidden in the attics
The canary is grilled
over a flame of burnt lilies and jasmine

such strange times, Darling

The victorious drunken satan
is celebrating our mourning

God must be hidden in the attics

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