Luyện nghe bài hát Meurglys III, The Songwriter's Guild

(Hammill)

These days I just talk to plants and dogs,
all contact seems painful, risky, odd,
so I stay acting god in my own
where I trade cigarettes in for songs.
The deal's made the longer I go on:
I find me gone all but secret languages.

If only I phrase satisfactory words
in conversation, to make my heard,
if only....

III, he's my friend,
the only one that I can
to let it be pretence,
there's else.
It's me, but in the end
there's no-one else I is true,
none in all the masks of men,
there's nothing
but my guitar...
I suppose he'll to do.

in tongues is easy when you know how,
quite pleasing, but still nothing out right.
Pressurised lungs, heart bleeding, you'd better slow
and show that you can it through the night.
However dark it seems, the present is the present,
beyond it no further darkness concealed
and these desperate dreams,
longing for friends and comfort,
you that in the end all will be revealed.
When no plants or dogs or rooms are there to hear you,
and no-one is left near you, then you'll
in the end only you and Meurglys III,
and this is just what you to be.
(Fool!)

Though I know all this is escape,
I run because I don't know where the lies.
In songs this I can bear the weight;
I'm still,
I until,
one day, I hope that arrive.