French woman singing on the radio, calling to me from the dark
of this Berlin apartment, as the night passes by without sleep.
A song I’m sure is full of love and tenderness, though I can’t understand.
Another war is brewing. Another pointless sacrifice, that will change nothing.
And still that French woman sings of something pure and sweet.
I think of walking hand in hand with a pretty women, when it’s all really done.
But it will never be done. It’s just the same tired shit on and on forever.
I know I go in the morning, to face the awful thing they’ve done.
French woman sings, I know, of something good and pure and sweet.
I listen, try to hold onto her voice like the last beam of light from the sun.
There will be so little of it left, after all the fire that is to come.