The Postcard

by Boris Grebenshikov

This is a postcard
Saying I’m alright in this beautiful city
This is a phone call
Saying, yeah, I am sleeping alone here
The telephone lines are cut
My hands can’t hold the paper
You are on my mind

Nobody knows your name here
Except when the moon is out
And then they toss in their sleep
Crying out for you to take them
But me I cannot sleep
I cannot dream
My heart is shattered
You are on my mind

Once seven colors used to make men blind
And now we are like birds stuck in barbed wire

Precise, like sunrise
A child just like any other
Made of the bones of the earth
Fragile and deathless
Yes, I’m alright
I am a church
And I’m burning down

You are on my mind