Tale from Black

She washes all the young blood from her hands in the sink And she knows that the lights will be there for her Breaks down the bodies to dark subtle ink And she scrawls on the parchments that hang in the air She rides a horse over stones in the night And she closes her eyes and lets go of the reigns She knows the radios run through the night And she knows that the lights leave the prettiest stains She builds a shrine and a typing machine And she curls up to write down her tales from the black Prays for a soft breeze and cool gentle rain And she prays for the bodies that rise slowly back She knows the dunes where the steel cities grow And she knows when they jail her they'll grind down the key She knows the lights lay the heaviest blows And she knows that the sand must submit to the sea She builds a bird out of plywood and gold For to carry the old souls on up to the sun Turns on the TV and sits in the cold And she dreams that sometimes she's the prettiest one She knows the thrill of the chase in her veins And she knows that the sinking's a trick of the light Prays for the silence and cool gentle rain And she prays that the radios run through the night

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