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• Artiste: Poets Of The Fall
• Titre: Choir Of Cicadas
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It's the season of dust trailing old pick up trucks Seashells washed ashore down by the docks So baby pull on your blue jeans turn the radio loud Don’t wait for the hour to give birth to doubt In the peak harvest of snakebites and wasted hindsight When trivial truths sit next to the taillights When fenders of chrome they rattle and hum All carved in the shape of freedom Those flea market stalls in the bone dry noon Despite pretty signs, look cursed and marooned And trumpet notes wailing from the candy store Like a work of art of uneasy rapport The wreckage, the blunder, the tarot read In the heat blurry air we're down in the field Where to the choir of cicadas' jubilee Among the clouds we once fell asleep The sirens of the shipyard by those derelict whales Old mothers singing rusty old tales Like revving engines keening sky high Yet theirs is never a war cry So I’ll be your lover now, brazen and bright Like the flare of a match you struck in the night Though what does a stray know ‘bout holy and true But I'll always come to your rescue Oh lord won't you hear your children cry Singing their praise and their hallelujahs I have no more words to describe An empty sky of hollow blue, yeah So where is my lover, my firelight The line on the edge of truth and rumour We took our vows in the heart of the night We were brazen and bright, when we were brazen and bright