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

(Like an apple tree among the trees of the woods, so is my love among men)

(He has brought me to a banquet hall, and his banner over me is love)

(Let me see your form, hear your voice)

(Catch for us the foxes that ruin our vineyards, the vineyards that are in bloom)

(Catch for us even 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)

(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)

(I have my loves, I have my doubts)

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