I'm running in one-way dreams,
the lights are chasing me;

The city crawls into dark pits,
squeez herself thru narrow streets.
Spaceships crashing in space,
and she just wanna hide her face.

Forgotten strangers behind closed doors,
perfume scent of biblical whores,
and neon rivers out of time
send cold shivers down her spine.

Refugees traveling thru endless corridors,
as radioactive waves breaking on the shores.
Drunks bow to their holy queen,
and softly bath her concrete skin.

The sound of applause from a distant magic show,
woke up sleeping ghosts beneath the snow.
The city is flipping thru channels of grief,
transmitting to the air sighs of relief.



And the satellites are already falling from the sky,
and we, unlike them, continue to try.






ראו גם חלק א'- http://stage.co.il/Stories/537268216
רישומי עיפרון על גזירי מגזינים ישנים (משנות השמונים).


זהו, זה ה"מלנכוליה אורבנית" העשירי והאחרון.



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