Your native language

عربي

Arabic

عربي

简体中文

Chinese

简体中文

Nederlands

Dutch

Nederlands

Français

French

Français

Deutsch

German

Deutsch

Italiano

Italian

Italiano

日本語

Japanese

日本語

한국인

Korean

한국인

Polski

Polish

Polski

Português

Portuguese

Português

Română

Romanian

Română

Русский

Russian

Русский

Español

Spanish

Español

Türk

Turkish

Türk

Українська

Ukrainian

Українська
User Avatar

Sonido


Interfaz


Nivel de dificultad


Acento



lenguaje de interfaz

es

Lyrkit YouTube Lyrkit Instagram Lyrkit Facebook
Política de cookies   |   Apoyo   |   FAQ
1
registro de inicio de sesión
Lyrkit

donar

5$

Lyrkit

donar

10$

Lyrkit

donar

20$

Lyrkit

Y/o apoyarme en las redes sociales. redes:


Lyrkit YouTube Lyrkit Instagram Lyrkit Facebook
The Waterboys

Postcard From The Celtic Dreamtime

 

Postcard From The Celtic Dreamtime

(álbum: Good Luck, Seeker - 2020)


The storm that has howled for four days
Has blown itself out
And the wheels of the world
Have begun again to turn

From my window I watch far waves
Crashing on the bay
White spray against black sea
Distance compressing their dance into slow motion
On the Clare coast I see silver rounded hills
With scarped terraces
A martello tower, a ruined fort
Four, maybe five headlands fading south
While westwards the Aran Islands wait for me
Dark smoke-like shadows on the horizon

Pantheons of clouds move across the Atlantic sky
Like ships, white galleons
Chariots or cavalcade of noble kingpins
And patient, lofty queens
Slow procession of old gods passing by

Below my house kaleidoscope of stone walls
And huddled rooftops
Small haphazard fields, wild, untended
A witch-faced woman walking cows uphill
Whacking their arses with a long branch
Suddenly smiling when she sees me
A rough arm waving

The clamour of voices in my mind
The woman who wonders about me
The men who want me to deliver their dreams
Has faded
I can almost no longer hear them

The storm that has howled for four days
Has blown itself out
Nothing disturbs the calm
But the rattle of my typewriter

I stop

In the silence the ever-present past
And the ever-passing present
Blend with the landscape
To make a flavoured immensity
An atmosphere so strong
That when I step outside
I feel it beat against my skin
And cluster headily round me
As I walk through it
As I breathe it
As I become it

hecho

¿Agregaste todas las palabras desconocidas de esta canción?