Sale Nadj** died in his sleep,
the day was just starting to grey,
and I don't know what's suspicious there
since he also lived in his dreams.
They say he must've felt it was the end,
roomer has it he never set the clock.
Well now, he knew he was losing that war.
Some people have bad dreams,
to others, each sunrise is a nightmare.
The priest was moaning the Psalm
like a verse learned as punishment.
In front of the Chapel the nobility and scum
from the same regiment of the defeated.
Luckily he didn't have what to leave,
'cos he wouldn't have to whom...
He'd squandered his life his way,
his Will but a sketch on a box of matches.
Chorus: The patient fingers of inevitability are dispersing the prelude of a song I know well, and if there's anything else left to forgive you for...there you go...that too, I forgive you tonight. A roaring ocean of unavoidability, the sky is heavy on the soft teal of the ceiling, but that's nothing that can't be treated with two-three drops of tenderness in the wine from Ravanica.***
Yes, Sale Nadj died in his sleep,
I guess he was dreaming of Srem.****
That water well cold at the bottom
and the vine shade shadowed porch.
I guess he was dreaming of her,
whose name's known only to God,
and that what happened in the yoke of that dream
simply had killed him.
Chorus: The patient fingers of...