Once I had a lover in Berlin, Said a frail old woman from a table next to mine. His voice was like an ancient violin And he spoke to me - that voice ... that voice! I believe they call it falling for a man, But this falling made me fly, left me soaring for the sky. There wasn't any sense, there was no plan, But who would trade this passion for the safety of dry land? Not I. Not he.
And we knew we had to travel far away, We knew we had to disappear, where no one else could find us. A sailing ship would take us from the bay. Its sails would fill with an offshore wind to blind us. We gambled our security - the future for the now, Sailed off toward the storm, safety cast aside. We'd gone beyond what reason would allow, But who could tame the tidal wave and tell it where to go? Not I. Not you.
Reality then brought it to an end, Said the frail old woman, shaking underneath her hat. A decent set of values is no friend. It's reason now that blinds us, please believe! And passion is not willing to be steered. Purity alone won't fill a ship's wide sails. Life will sometimes bring what we most feared, And who could ever say when to go or when to stay? Not you. Not we.
I carried that dream as a girl, Dreaming by a fjord so deep, That my destiny called From the coastal ship far out at sea.
Always at evening, That's when that ship called out to me, Saying she heads north As I ran to the harbour to see.
A feast coming in, An Arabian night with a taste of salt, Fond good-byes and Good Lord! There you are! These boxes with cats, these eggs that must not be broken, These sailors' cries and rope thrown down On the dock for tying, Seeing the world itself arriving.
Made of steel and fairytales. What a sight! The Captain's black uniform with stripes gold and bright. Happiness coming in. Happiness coming through the dark.
I saw that she was rather young. She was standing at the counter of a dusty old arcade. She must have weighed at least 200 pounds, But everything she sold was slim and finely made. I'd seen nothing so enchanting for so long. This was Montreal, I was hiding from the rain. She wore black fingernails and went right into a song, As she slowly came to me with this refrain:
I'm selling all my mother's clothes: Her lingerie, her skirts and coats. Her beauty was as pure as this affair is sordid. I'm selling all my mother's clothes, And, yes, I find it morbid.
She chain-smoked as she handled dark velour. These hand-made things she showed me in her dramatic fashion. She saw for me these clothes held an allure, The moire and silk seemed to stir my passion. It was Dior, it was Chanel, a certain cut, a seamless seam. The black-nailed girl could clearly see my weakness. A weakness fed by a strange and sensuous dream. With a joyless laugh she said those lines again:
I'm selling all my mother's clothes: Her lingerie, her skirts and coats. Her beauty was as pure as this affair is sordid. I'm selling all my mother's clothes, And, yes, I find it morbid.
She showed me last a handbag made of velvet. In it were expensive stones like amethyst and jade. Black sapphires had been shaped just like a rose. For the funeral of a lover her mother had them made. It probably was Paris where he died, is what she said, As this big forgotten daughter glanced towards the window. I'll sell the sapphires cheap, the man's long dead! With a vacant laugh she gave those lines again:
I'm selling all my mother's clothes: Her lingerie, her skirts and coats. Her beauty was as pure as this affair is sordid. I'm selling all my mother's clothes, And, yes, I find it morbid.
See the seagulls sitting by the waterfront, Like sculptures made of stone, Watching summer good times fly away And leave the seagulls all alone. Birds are like words: Suddenly away. Birds are like words: Some of them will stay.
See the empty seat beneath me Thinking of the days I spent with you. Memories of what we said are circling in my mind And make me blue. Words are like birds: Suddenly away. Words are like birds: Some of them will stay.
Day is the veil that you can't pull aside like a curtain Sewn from a black cloth - a cloth that no-one can see. No-one can take it away and you know this for certain. No-one can help you, you might as well let the cloth be. You no longer are able to see, you no longer have foresight. And you can't part the curtain, there's no way to know what's in store. You're stranded in time, a ghost that is lost in the twilight. And the curtain is woven from the memories of time gone before.
Day is blank paper, but paper you never can write on, Unlike the letters I hold that you sent to me. But the words that you've written are buried speaking to no-one, And words that have lost all their soul should never be. You knew from the first touch this way was a pathway to danger. You didn't take time to close all the doors and the gate. Feelings can bring you so near and then leave you a stranger, And things are not what they appear but find you too late.
Day is the thief that you don't have the courage to track down, Who forces himself into all of the rooms of your home. He comes to your garden, your secrets - he's quiet! Makes no sound. He steals all the answers and leaves all the questions alone. And you know there'll be days, just like the ones that you once knew. And you know that love is really a question of thirst. And you know that one day there will by a new power within you. But you dread all the days in between that will seek you out first.
