The Soviet

God is love and love is real
 But the dead are dancing with the dead
 And whatever's charming disappears
 While all things lovely only hurt my head
 As I gather stones from fields
 Like pearls of water on my fingers' ends
 And I carefully wrap them up in boxes
 Safe from windows, from things that break
 As the night-time shined like day it saw my sorry face
 And 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 ears, you musicians
 To silence because they only come out when it's quiet
 Their tails brushing over your eyelids
 Oh wake up, sleepers, and rise from the dead!
 Or the fur that they shed that's gonna lay on your bed
 In a delicate orange-ish cinnamon red
 Ah, but I don't need this!
 I don't need this
 My doubts, my loves
 I don't need this