I wanted to stay in that little town with youThe one with all the chickensAnd the movie house on fireLate at nightJust before the fog came inI’d sit on the roof of the bankAnd stare up at your windowBut it wasn’t your windowAnd you weren’t thereThere would have to beMany long nightsAnd a greater weight of daysBefore that room behind the glass would hold usI wrote to you about the red clay roofsAnd the white plaster walls of PortugalThe Azores, the little yellow birdsThe ceaseless seaAnd the sleeping rivers, long gonePanting for somethingThat the rivers themselves had forgottenIt’s that wayIt’s always that wayIt’s this desire that eats desireAnd this burning wingAlways beatingThe cold still air