The bombshells sing melodies overhead
dredging up memories of the dead,
those dying here, and my own decay.
Defeatists under every stone turned,
and will we never learn?
Tomorrow, oh so sorry, to die and return.
Under fierce weather this ship is surrendered.
Return home son in black letters,
an empty necklace, you'll swim forever.
If these bombs are our love,
what have we become?
To the bombshell melody above
we sing along in low voice
to every word.
Relying on placebos,
and deserving so much less.
Surviving this disease
I beg for some semblance of peace.
As the world spins again around,
watch the sky come crashing down.
Tomorrow, oh so sorry, there is no "safe in sound."
Under fierce weather this ship is surrendered to the better.
If these bombs are our love,
what have become?
To the bombshell melody above
we sing along in low voice
to every word.
Every step is a trial through fire.
Tomorrow, oh so sorry.
How do we catch our breath when we can't stop moving?
And how do we catch up when we have to concentrate on our breathing?
And suppressing the bleeding?
Blood stained shirt, torn and burnt; a step to recovery.
The blood on the sleeve, the damage beneath begs for relief.
Tomorrow, oh so sorry, never will we know a peace.
These bombs are our love.
What have become?
To the bombshell melody above
we sing along in low voice
to every word.
To the bombshell melody above
I move my feet in time. You think I'm fine,
but I'm just going by, and by, and by, and by…
Host ritual burnings to purge bad memories:
shirt-fire sacrifices aren't perfect;
the pain is never forgotten,
and a smoldering vestige is transferred
into this chamber of dreams
where it burns through like kerosene!
To the shirt-fire sacrifice in my hands
I sing along in low voice,
to every word.
To the sacrificial flames, in the heat,
I move my body in time. You know I'm not fine!
To this memory I say goodbye!
Hello… again… Goodbye!
