They said: bury the past. But the past… never closed its eyes. We marched in mud, we danced through rot, With trumpets crying like widows at war. The dead threw bones like castanets And begged the earth for just one more. The priest drank wine from shattered cups, The bride wore coal instead of lace. The band played on - a waltz of ruin And hell kept time with savage grace. Spin, my darling, spin in smoke, Clutch the ashes in your throat. This is no requiem - this is revolt! A cabaret of sins we wrote. (Shouted, as if from pulpit) Bring the brass! Bring the brass! Let the mourning trumpets clash! Strike the floor with wooden heels Let the funeral learn to dance! The organ weeps in minor thirds, The tambourines ignite the night. Skrzypce screech like fractured stars, While death and joy begin to fight. The sky is black with paper crowns, And all the saints forgot their names. But we - the fools with fire in pockets Still sing through thunder. Still play the game. So raise your glass of graveyard wine, And kiss the lips that time forgot. We are the bells of burning towers And this waltz is all we’ve got.
