sou dos que preferem um nocturno amargo de peter hammill 
à doçura fugaz do falso sol que se esconde ao fim da manhã

Letters in pencil, some of them as heavy as lead,


as dated as carbon, as black as coal, but burning as red.


Clues faintly stencilled: the message, though leeched, is unbled,


as secret as marble - as young, as old, as living, as dead.


And always that laugh
 that comes as though it's from pain:


though I'm lashed to the mast 
still it hammers round my brain.



Laughter in the backbone,
 laughter impossibly wise,


that same laughter that comes
 every time I flash on that look in your eyes


which whispers of a black zone
 which'll mock all my credos as lies,


where all logic is done 
and time will smash every theory I devise.


And the hour-glass is shattered
 only by the magic of your touch


where nothing really matter… No, Nothing matters very much!



So the siren song runs through the ages, 
and it courses through my veins like champagne;


and with all the sweet kisses of addiction 
it's calling me to break my bonds again.



Future memory exploding like shrapnel,
 some splinters escape on my tongue,


some of them scar comprehension...
 beneath the scab they burn, but the wound becomes numbs.


And always the song draws me forward, 
rejoicing in the search and the prayer,


bored with all but the mad,
 the strange, the freak, the impossible dare.


Still your laugh chills my marrow
 till I embrace it on my knees....


Oh, when the mast becomes a flagpole,
 what becomes of me?



What becomes, oh, what becomes of me?