Ya dije que las metáforas son peligrosas. El amor empieza por una metáfora. Dicho de otro modo: el amor empieza en el momento en que una mujer inscribe su primera palabra en nuestra memoria poética. Milán Kundera
27.12.09
Violet Hill
Was a long and dark December, from the rooftops I remember there was snow, white snow.
Clearly I remember from the windows they were watching while we froze down below.
When the future's architectured by a carnival of idiots on show you'd better lie low...
If you love me, won't you let me know?
Was a long and dark December when the banks became cathedrals and the fog became God. Priests clutched onto bibles, hollowed out to fit their rifles and the cross was held aloft.
Bury me in armor when I'm dead and hit the ground, a love back home unfolds.
If you love me, won't you let me know?
I don't want to be a soldier who the captain of some sinking ship would stow, far below...
So if you love me, why'd you let me go?
I took my love down to Violet Hill, there we sat in snow, all that time she was silent still...
So if you love me, won't you let me know?
If you love me, won't you let me know?
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