Artist: peter hammill
Song: time heals
Thinking back, it seems that I
can lie beside you as I never truly did,
in afterglow -
no afterwords at all.
Only writing love songs when it's gone and dead;
only paying words out: strings of half-forgotten sentiments...
I mean...
I meant...
I never really quite could say the way it was.
The first time that we met I said 'I bet that she's the one',
but I was talking to myself then, as always.
As time went by our steps entwined, unwritten lines drew taut
and I tried to find a way to make it all safe...
Into the play - what a production! -
into the days and ever more suction:
you hold me close, but hold me farther
away from yourself - I make me a martyr,
for pain and love go hand in hand...
And hand in hand go you and my friend,
You are his and I am yours and just cannot evade you;
my days a dream, my nights unseemly,
stolen moments all I live for,
but theft is no way to persuade you
to come with me, leave him behind you;
my hurtful eyes try to remind you
it's all I can do to keep from screaming
'I love you, I love you!' - I wish I was dreaming,
but the steps we take all leave footprints...
Sooner or later the whole thing will be blown:
you will leave him or I'll be left here, alone.
Either way someone loses someone
but I won't mind that, I just would quite like to know
who we love the most - I guess that's ourselves.
The days are strange, at night we're strangers,
lie in bed and lie inside our heads,
we come no closer than as dancers.
Your eyes are change, your presence danger,
won't look me in the face and yet you
kiss and make up the answer
to all the questions that fly unanswered, unreasoned -
death in the sky, death in the season.
If you leave me now, it might nearly kill me...
Remember me?
Remember we three?
it all seemed so important at the time,
we came so close to wrecking all our lives,
and now it's all just song lines.
Time heals,
time heals -
oh, but I still bear the weals.
Thinking back, it seems that I
can lie beside you as I never truly did,
in afterglow -
no afterwords at all.
Only writing love songs when it's gone and dead;
only paying words out: strings of half-forgotten sentiments...
I mean...
I meant...
I never really quite could say the way it was.
