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letra de pompeii - peter hammill

the golden dream, the seat of all decorum,
a satellite to match the light of rome:
its silver children chatter in the forum,
the bath-house, and the brothels, and their homes
about the latest fashions for their clothes.
across the tyrrhenian sea comes drifting
a song that none of them have ever known.
the golden dream that holds back all the hours
for the ladies in their dionysian rites,
blonde heads all garlanded with flowers:
wine and love and laughter through the night
in constant masque and pageant, constant flight.
the ground below them whispers in a murmur
of p-ssion which is hotter yet than white.
the golden dream, the city of all cities,
its towers piercing into the azure sky,
whose hand is dealt, regarless of all pity:
condemned to martyrdom, but not to die.
two lovers look up from their hidden bower.
the wine has stood too long and it turns sour.
i see the tall and bending of your streets
but now they echo only leather tourist feet
and waking, ashen, grey-blue blinding death
your sudden winding-sheet.
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- peter hammill

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