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"....Di je to drvo raslo
od kog je tesana
da l' se pod njime
neko nekada ljubio

Otkud u njemu izvor
svih mojih pesama
da l' je to znao
onaj ko ga je dubio

'Di je to drvo raslo
vrh kojih bregova
da l' nas je ista
kisa mladjane zalila

Ko mu je grane kres'o
mati ga njegova
cija je ruka lisca
s jeseni palila, da znam.

(...)

Snio sam sanduk, crni, srebrom okovan
novembar, izmaglica i kvartet dragih lica
maleni cun nasred luke pokisle
da me u vecnost otisne

'Di je to drvo raslo
spram kojih vetrova
da l' je pod njime
neko za nekim zalio

Sto ga je grom obis'o
mati ga Petrova
ko je u sake pljun'o
pa ga strovalio

Jedina moja mila, sto si me budila
bio sam tako blizu nalicja vremena
taji se jedno drvo u mojim grudima
gde li ce nesto nici iz toga semena
da znam."




B.

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"They even looked at each other once across a crowded bar
He was with Martha, she was with Tom
Neither of them really knew what was going on
Strange feeling of never
Heartbeats becoming synchronized
and staying that way forever

Most of the time it was just near misses
Air kisses, once at a bookstore, once at a party
She came in as he was leaving
And years ago at the movies, she sat behind him
A 6:30 showing of 'While You Were Sleeping'
He never once looked around

[Chorus:]
It's so easy from above
You can really see it all
People who belong together
Lost and sad and small
But there's nothing to be done for them
It doesn't work that way
Sure we all have soulmates but we walk past them every day, oh no

And it's not like they were ever actually unhappy in the lives they lived
He married Martha, she married Tom
Just this vague notion that something was wrong
A naked absence, a phantom limb
An itch that could never be scratched

[Chorus]

Neither of them knew what was going on
A strange feeling of never
Heartbeats becoming synchronized
And staying that way forever

Who knows whether that's how it should be
Maybe our ghosts live in that vacancy

Maybe that's how books get written
Maybe that's why songs get sung
Maybe we owe the unlucky ones


Maybe that's how books get written
Maybe that's why songs get sung
Maybe we owe the unlucky ones."