I'd just like to share this all with you
It's a song by The Premier.
They end their CD with it.
It's spoken into a microphone with a very moving piano part backing it-that's all.
It almost brings me to tears every time I hear it, it's so powerful.
Cardiac arrest.
Ruptured aorta.
Collapsed ventricle.
It's all just a broken heart on paper.
And that man from down the street?
The man with the garden full of tulips?
The garden full of reds and yellows and purples and oranges?
That man just had his paper heart cut to pieces.
And it was the prettiest death anyone had ever seen.
He lay there drowning in a sea of blossoms and vivid greens.
Alert the authorities.
Lights atop the arriving train of emergencies catch the eyes of neighbors who are looking at the van on TV.
And the ambulance driver kept a straight face,
The ambulance driver who smokes a pack of cowboy-killers a day and scoffs at cancer.
That ambulance driver kept his straight God-forsaken face as he drove off to heaven, through traffic lights with no fear.
And without the fear driving her,
The granddaughter of the man we mourned in the street is standing in her grandfather's living room, pulling at the fringes of her dress.
Still going over the soft vowels of the pastor who read the eulogy.
She sips at a glass of juice and leaves red streaks for all to see.
Fashion tips for lipstick form her face into a set of fragile lines too perfect to kiss.
Mosaic.
An artistic vision.
The way her eyes are outlined is just...it's just perfect.
She pulls daylight in through the window with her steps.
Slowly, ittle by little like an idle stream current.
Little by little by little until all at once the reds and oranges burst into the room, and reflect back on themselves on everything glass and everything metal and everything beautiful.
Light on light, the rain collapses into the grips of a firefight.
No one can win when no one can die.
The immortal properties of this immortal light.
And we're jealous,
And she's jealous, trying to remember how to get tears to cross the lines of her eyes.
In the street, children are flying kites.
The way they cross paths and flip in the breeze is like watching tigers fight over nothing. Just to fight. Just to feel alive.
My father watches them through the window, and when I ask him what he's looking at, he responds with "Their hope, son. Their hope."
They end their CD with it.
It's spoken into a microphone with a very moving piano part backing it-that's all.
It almost brings me to tears every time I hear it, it's so powerful.
Cardiac arrest.
Ruptured aorta.
Collapsed ventricle.
It's all just a broken heart on paper.
And that man from down the street?
The man with the garden full of tulips?
The garden full of reds and yellows and purples and oranges?
That man just had his paper heart cut to pieces.
And it was the prettiest death anyone had ever seen.
He lay there drowning in a sea of blossoms and vivid greens.
Alert the authorities.
Lights atop the arriving train of emergencies catch the eyes of neighbors who are looking at the van on TV.
And the ambulance driver kept a straight face,
The ambulance driver who smokes a pack of cowboy-killers a day and scoffs at cancer.
That ambulance driver kept his straight God-forsaken face as he drove off to heaven, through traffic lights with no fear.
And without the fear driving her,
The granddaughter of the man we mourned in the street is standing in her grandfather's living room, pulling at the fringes of her dress.
Still going over the soft vowels of the pastor who read the eulogy.
She sips at a glass of juice and leaves red streaks for all to see.
Fashion tips for lipstick form her face into a set of fragile lines too perfect to kiss.
Mosaic.
An artistic vision.
The way her eyes are outlined is just...it's just perfect.
She pulls daylight in through the window with her steps.
Slowly, ittle by little like an idle stream current.
Little by little by little until all at once the reds and oranges burst into the room, and reflect back on themselves on everything glass and everything metal and everything beautiful.
Light on light, the rain collapses into the grips of a firefight.
No one can win when no one can die.
The immortal properties of this immortal light.
And we're jealous,
And she's jealous, trying to remember how to get tears to cross the lines of her eyes.
In the street, children are flying kites.
The way they cross paths and flip in the breeze is like watching tigers fight over nothing. Just to fight. Just to feel alive.
My father watches them through the window, and when I ask him what he's looking at, he responds with "Their hope, son. Their hope."