Текст песни Poem: Distant Lights Of Olancha Recede (Harold Budd) с переводом

The boy, my boy

Lets the full charge fly

The sound is masked by the rolling thunder peeling off the Sierras

Late desert evening, getting black, getting feral

The kilns haven’t felt fire for a hundred years, but the boy lets another one go

Pushed backed by the recoil, and another one

The slug hits the dirt and splinters of lead have a life of their own as the

thunder sends signals of yes and no

You belong but you don’t belong

Fat owl changes cottonwoods, staring

Twenty year old boots scrunch the sand as the rains are only yards away

Red packed highway going east to Keeler

Distant lights of Olancha recede in the caked mirror

An hour and a half to Four Corners, then we’re home, boys

A day and a half, then we’re home, boys

A year and a half, a century

Then we’re home

Boys

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