The Postcard - Борис Гребенщиков

This is a postcard

Saying I’m alright in this beautiful city.

This is a phone call

Saying, yes, I am sleeping alone here.

But the telephone lines are cut,

My hands can’t hold the paper.

You are on my mind, You are on my mind.

Nobody knows your name here,

Except when the moon is out.

And then they toss in their sleep

Crying out for you to take them,

But me I cannot sleep, I cannot dream,

My heart is shattered.

You are on my mind, You are on my mind.

Once seven colors used to make a man blind.

And now we, are like birds stuck in barbed wire.

Precise, like sunrise

A child just like any other.

Made of the bones of the earth

Fragile and deathless.

Yes, I’m alright, I’m a church,

And I’m burning down.

You are on my mind, You are on my mind;

You are on my mind, You are on my mind;

You are on my mind, You are on my mind;

You are on my mind, You are on my mind…