The Soviet

God is love and love is real
But the dead are dancing with the dead
And though all that's charming disappears
All of things lovely only hurt my head
As I gather stones from fields
Like pearls of water on my fingers' endsAnd wrap them up in boxes
Safe from windows, from things that breakAs the night-time shined
Like day it saw my sorry face
Hair a mess but it liked me best that way
Besides, how else could I confess?
When I looked down like if to pray
Well I was looking down her dressGood God, please
Catch for us the foxes in the vineyard, the little foxesSo turn your ear, musician, to silence
Because they only come out when it's quiet
Their tails brushing over your eyelids
Oh wake up, sleeper, and rise from the dead
Or the fur that they shed will cover your bedIn a delicate orange-ish cinnamon red
Ah, I don't need this
I have my loves
I have my doubts
I don't need this