[Intro — low, close] The book is done. There. A dangerous sentence. So small on the tongue, so heavy in the room. [Verse 1] I closed the file at half past midnight, and the silence looked at me. All my invented people suddenly were free. No more footsteps in the corridor. No more voices near the door. No more ghosts requiring coffee at impossible half past four. I should have felt victorious. I did, for half a breath. Then joy came in with flowers, and sadness came with death. [Pre-Chorus] For when you finish building a world from nerve and flame, you do not simply leave it. You call each shadow by name. [Chorus] After the last page, after the final line, I stand with empty hands before a child of mine. After the last page, the battle has begun: the envelopes, the waiting rooms, the polite men with no sun. But still I say: go on, my book. Go knock on every wall. I carried you through darkness. Now make them hear you fall. [Verse 2] There will be letters without music. There will be useful no. There will be people who explain why art must learn to grow more marketable, more simple, more easy to describe. As if a living creature were a form one could subscribe. I know. I shall be patient. I shall wear my decent face. Then privately inform the ceiling what I think of taste. [Pre-Chorus] A manuscript is tender until the world comes in. Then every printed doorway asks: what do you bring? [Chorus] After the last page, after the final line, I stand with empty hands before a child of mine. After the last page, the battle has begun: the envelopes, the waiting rooms, the polite men with no sun. But still I say: go on, my book. Go knock on every wall. I carried you through darkness. Now make them hear you fall. [Bridge — spoken-sung] Listen. A finished novel is not finished. It has merely changed its enemies. Yesterday the enemy was doubt. Today the enemy has stationery, a committee, and a very calm voice. Excellent. Let them come. I have survived my own sentences. I can survive theirs. [Verse 3] Still, I will miss the secret labour, the lamp, the chair, the rain. The little private thunder running gently through the brain. I will miss the sudden sentence arriving like a thief. I will miss the blessed trouble of not knowing what I believe. And if they ask me what it means, this thing I had to write, I may smile and say: forgive me, I was busy staying alive. [Final Chorus — wider, warm, defiant] After the last page, after the final line, I stand with empty hands before a child of mine. After the last page, let every door be tried. Let every clever silence meet the thing inside. Go on, my book. Go trouble someone’s sleep. Go find the ones who recognise the wounds you had to keep. After the last page, I am glad, and I am sore. I have reached the ending. Now I start once more. [Outro — soft] The book is done. There. A dangerous sentence. So small on the tongue, so heavy in the room.
