The Church - Destination / 1987

The Church - Destination


Versuri/text:

Our instruments have no way of measuring this feeling
Can never cut below the floor, or penetrate the ceiling
In the space between our houses, some bones have been discovered
But our procession lurches on, as if we had recovered


Draconian winter unforetold
One solar day, suddenly you're old
Your little envelope just makes me cold
Makes destination start to unfold


Our documents are useless, or forged beyond believing
Page forty-seven is unsigned, I need it by this evening
In the space between our cities, a storm is slowly forming
Something eating up our days, I feel it every morning


Destination, destination
Destination, destination
Destination, destination


It's not a religion, it's just a technique
It's just a way of making you speak
Distance and speed have left us too weak
And destination looks kind of bleak


Our elements are burned out, our beasts have been mistreated
I tell you it's the only way we'll get this road completed
In the space between our bodies, the air has grown small fingers
Just one caress, you're powerless, like all those clapped-out swingers


Destination, destination
Destination, destination
Destination, destination
Destination