Poets of the fall - Choir of Cicadas

It's the season of dust trailing old pick up trucks
Seashells washed ashore down by the docks
So baby pull on your blue jeans turn the radio loud
Don’t wait for the hour to give birth to doubt

In the peak harvest of snakebites and wasted hindsight
When trivial truths sit next to the taillights
When fenders of chrome they rattle and hum
All carved in the shape of freedom

Those flea market stalls in the bone dry noon
Despite pretty signs, look cursed and marooned
And trumpet notes wailing from the candy store
Like a work of art of uneasy rapport

The wreckage, the blunder, the tarot read
In the heat blurry air we're down in the field
Where to the choir of cicadas' jubilee
Among the clouds we once fell asleep

The sirens of the shipyard by those derelict whales
Old mothers singing rusty old tales
Like revving engines keening sky high
Yet theirs is never a war cry

So I’ll be your lover now, brazen and bright
Like the flare of a match you struck in the night
Though what does a stray know ‘bout holy and true
But I'll always come to your rescue

Oh lord won't you hear your children cry
Singing their praise and their hallelujahs
I have no more words to describe
An empty sky of hollow blue, yeah
So where is my lover, my firelight
The line on the edge of truth and rumour
We took our vows in the heart of the night
We were brazen and bright, when we were brazen and bright