Brothers! these verses are from Pink Floyd!!! No one knows where you are,
how close or how far.
Keep shining, crazy diamond.
KNOCKIN' ON HEAVEN'S DOOR live like a God
I break your mirror. Reflect on who you are, in case you didn't know I will be the wind, the rain, and the sunset The light at your door to show you are home.
somewhere behind the names
I have for you;
your body is made of nets
in which my shadow got entangled;
your voice is perfect and imperfect
like the petals of the Oracle "I told you when I came, I was a stranger"
in a mass of daisies.
You honor your God
with mist and avalanches
it's your religion without promises
and monuments that crash
like stars on a field
where you said you never slept.
Shaping your nails
with the blade of a razor
and reading the work
like a Book of Proverbs
that no man will write for you,
a shed membrane
of the voice you use
to wrap your silence
is carried between us by the force of gravity
and some mechanism
of our daily life
imprints upon it an ordinary question
like the Lord's Prayer raised
on a gilded coin.
Even before I start to answer you
I know you won’t be listening to me.
We are together in a room,
it’s an October evening,
no one is writing our story.
Whoever keeps us here in the middle of a Law,
I hear it now
I hear it breathing
as it beautifully decorates our simple chains.
how close or how far.
Keep shining, crazy diamond.
KNOCKIN' ON HEAVEN'S DOOR live like a God
I break your mirror. Reflect on who you are, in case you didn't know I will be the wind, the rain, and the sunset The light at your door to show you are home.
somewhere behind the names
I have for you;
your body is made of nets
in which my shadow got entangled;
your voice is perfect and imperfect
like the petals of the Oracle "I told you when I came, I was a stranger"
in a mass of daisies.
You honor your God
with mist and avalanches
it's your religion without promises
and monuments that crash
like stars on a field
where you said you never slept.
Shaping your nails
with the blade of a razor
and reading the work
like a Book of Proverbs
that no man will write for you,
a shed membrane
of the voice you use
to wrap your silence
is carried between us by the force of gravity
and some mechanism
of our daily life
imprints upon it an ordinary question
like the Lord's Prayer raised
on a gilded coin.
Even before I start to answer you
I know you won’t be listening to me.
We are together in a room,
it’s an October evening,
no one is writing our story.
Whoever keeps us here in the middle of a Law,
I hear it now
I hear it breathing
as it beautifully decorates our simple chains.
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