Jerome Pradon - 08. Wno Screamed (Crime of passion) | Текст песни

• Тексты песен
• Jerome Pradon
• 08. Wno Screamed (Crime of passion)

Who screamed?
No one.
Just a cry in the night,
In the dark, in the light.
No, it's nothing, nothing, nothing.
It's just a scream.
It's just a sign of violence.
It's nothing but a scream
That comes to break the silence.
The locomotive train
Is screeching on the track,
The screaming cat in heat
Is scratching at the back.
The grass you trod on shrieks,
The rose you pluck is crying,
Beneath your careless feet,
A microcosm is dying.
Who screamed?
No one or almost.
It's a man, or a ghost.
It's no one. Almost nothing, nothing, nothing.
It's just a mother's cry
Surrounded by her children.
She sees her man struck down,
His body clubbed and beaten.
A sleeping tiger roars.
His dreams are full of rage.
He challenges the night
Awaking in his cage.
A woman old and shrill,
Bewails her inattention
When muggers on her trail
Attack and steal her pension.
The girl in broad daylight
Who runs out shouting, ",'Rape!"
Collapsing in the street
Obscene and full of hate.
The crowds who scream with joy,
They laugh and they applaud
To see the fireworks
Above the esplanade.
And then the naked fright
Of they who cower sobbing.
They raise their arms in prayer
But can't escape the bombing.
Who screamed?
No one.
Close your eyes, close your ears,
Don't reply, just play dead
And do nothing, nothing, nothing

Your reason starts to moan.
You give in to the madness.
So let the children sob
In fear of death and darkness.
Don't listen to the cries,
The screams of tortured flesh
Or to the souls that rush
Headlong toward the abyss.
In slaughterhouses, screams,
Where blood flows unabated
Or where an entire race
Was once exterminated.
The cries of the insane
Trapped in their private bedlam
The scream of mortal wounds,
The cry within the bedroom.
The bleat of innocence
When naked skin is thrashed
Or that of the corrupt
Writhing beneath the lash.
The counterfeited cries
Of a whore at her trade
And the forsaken cry
A dying Jesus made.
A virgin monk's despair
His faith abruptly failing
Who begs and curses God,
His cries are unavailing.
A prisoner cries out
As he's ejaculating
On names carved on the wall
Beneath a sordid grating.
The cry of impotence,
The cry of mental anguish,
The cry of melody
In a musician's language.
The scream of Edward Munch,
His pain immortalised
Echoing silently
Beneath the swirling skies
The seeker's victory cry
Drowned by the roaring waves
On finding peace at last
Within a watery grave.
And I, my precious love,
I watch your spreading blood
The knife here in my hand,
And scream, "I don't understand, I don't understand"