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' ends

And wrap them up in boxes
Safe from windows, from things that break

As 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 dress

Good God, please
Catch for us the foxes in the vineyard, the little foxes

So 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 bed

In 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