David Sylvian Follow

What shall we tell them?
A honeymoon as brief
As a walk in the park

What shall we tell them?
When they ask?
And they’ll ask…

Could you not see another way out?

Was the place without sun?
Was it furnished in black?
With the ache of the gas-oven
There at your back

The death angel paces
In boredom and waits
It shrieks from dark corners
Undermining your faith

What shall we tell them
When they ask?
And they will ask…

Could you not see another way out?
Where were the cape and the coastline?
The wonderkid’s sunshine?

Your sanity shattered
And climbing the walls
Wet towels at the floorline
Stuffed under the doors

And the powder-black wings
Left you blind
The last days of December
Are the loneliest kind

In the mess that you made
There was no pause for thought
Cause the lies that I told
Were the lies that you bought

There was no place to find you
Nor you to be found
In the margins of books you were reading
There are stages to grieving
That won’t let you down

Where was the coastline?
The wonderkid’s sunshine?

Under northern skies
Anonymous and free
Your nightfisherman pushes a boat
Out to sea

You’ll surely meet yours
Though his faith is unsound
There are stages to grieving
That won’t let you down