Besedila: Okkervil River. Other. A Stone.

Hot breath
rought skin,
warm laughs and smiling,
the lovliest words
whispered and meant
you like all these things.

But, though you like all these things
you love a stone.
You love a stone,
because it's smooth and it's cold.
And you'd love most
to be told
that it's all your own.

You love white veins,
you love hard grey,
the heaviest weight,
the clumsiest shape,
the earthiest smell,
the hollowest tone
you love a stone.

And I'm found too fast,
called too fond of flames,
and then I'm phoning my friends,
and then I'm shouldering the blame,
while you're picking pebbles
out of the drain,
miles ago.
You're out singing songs,
and I'm down shouting names
at the flickerless screen,
going fucking insane.
Am I losing my cool,
overstating my case?
Well, baby what can I say?

You know I never claimed
that I was a stone.
And you love a stone.
You love white veins,
you love hard grey,
the heaviest weight,
the clumsiest shape,
the earthiest smell,
the hollowest tone
you love a stone.

You love a stone,
because it's dark and it's old,
and if it could start
being alive
you'd stop living alone.
And I think I believe that,
if stones could dream,
they'd dream of being laid
side-by-side,
piece-by-piece,
and turned into a castle
for some towering queen
they're unable to know.

And when that queen's daughter
came of age,
I think she'd be lovely
and stubborn and brave,
and suitors would journey
from kingdoms away
just to make themselves known.

And I think that I know the bitter dismay of a lover who brought
fresh brouquets every day
when she turned him away
to remember some knave
who once gave
just one rose, one day, years ago.