The sun is nailed to skies with a golden clip,
under the sun is a leather saddle,
under the saddle is a horse, under the horse are my broken shoes
and old toil-worn hands.
To go forward with that caravan of clouds,
to hide own baldness under holey stetson,
just to go a bit further, just for a while, to the midnight,
to where the town shines, the whitish town.
Wind silently whistles on the burned road,
no one greets anyone in this town,
sheriff and mayor - gangsters, both rightfully elected,
and folks unhealthy from fear.
Hundred foreign killers with guns jump around,
and the law of the jungle rules,
ropemaker knits nooses, gravedigger can't keep up with digging,
and joiner is planing coffins.
In the city is order and work for everybody,
just be happy that only your mouth is numb,
be grateful that you're not on the gallows,
or that you're not lying few inches below the ground.
The sun is nailed to skies with a golden clip,
under the sun is a leather saddle,
under the saddle is a horse, under the horse are my broken shoes
and old toil-worn hands.
Just to walk way with that caravan of clouds
from where silent house and rifles rusts,
to plow and sow from morning to midnight
and to forget sore heart.