Sylvia Mae Gorelick - Old City III (after Schiele) lyrics

some delicate dawn of a Sunday or Wednesday should the sun drop its eyes on us ambulating down a narrow town the talk the cards are stacked against us still it shines and whispers let the children run in the streets they are pink and blue and orange yellow—anyway—like me I might appear more often in your crowded lives and then the mountains take their place inside our dailiness again with no glance for the paperboys and bellboys of our languorous desire and the sky has painted all our faces blue-gray like a sea withholding all its angels up and downward looking till the old abysses freeze and fall away and all their hands are bloody in our houses and their wings unhinged as if the day had risen in our sleep and stole away with all its streets and rivers leaving colors intimate behind no voice can quell its majesty our night thief is a limpid ghost of pasts and all the shudders have been opened for its silent circulation —like an atmosphere it winds around the hours faithfully as an abandoned animal its plunging hand in the enormity and all the smiling houses blink their eyes