Again at the end of the rainbow.
Again no gold to be found.
Just this cold unmade bed,
the last three words you said
and this buzzing along the telephone line.
Paris? Well, there's fog on the Seine
and Amsterdam still courses through my veins.
All these dark gray facades
wouldn't be so bad
if I could just taste your breath once again.
Honey, I saw your daddy
lying by the roadside
his feet sticking out of a sack.
Honey, they'll be calling
to tell you that your daddy
never will be coming back.
Again at the end of the rainbow.
Again no words to be found.
Just this voice, sad and alone,
me, wishing I was home
and this silence along the telephone line.

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