In the place with green waves and smell of pond scum
while observing delightedly the flight of a spider web
one crazy boy punches an old can,
one crazy boy beats an empty tin.
Music on the sand, music on the sand.
Music on the sand, music on the sand.
From the empty space, from the old tin can
comes out the sound that inflames our nerves.
The crazy boy beats creepy and rhythmic
all the kinds of rusty tins and enormous tanks.
Music on the sand, music on the sand.
Music on the sand.
We follow it like animals
and get jitters cause of anguish.
Music on the sand,
Music on the sand.
In the place with green waves, next to an old stone,
that guy creates a flag of a torn shirt.
He creates a sword of a willow stick
and mumbles some abracadabra.
Builds castles of sand –
twirls a finger round the ear.
Builds castles of sand –
twirls a finger round the ear.
We leave our families, we burn our money,
we fight in a dump for a hollow canister.
Women bring pans from their kitchens,
ministers walk far away with their rubbish bins.
And together with the roll of drums
he calls us to follow him.
And together with the roll of drums…
We follow him like rats
and then vanish in the waves.
Music under water,
Music under water.