“Troy” by Sinead O’Connor

“You wouldn’t have begged me to hold you if we hadn’t been there in the first place.”

I remember it
In Dublin in a rainstorm
And sitting in the long grass in summer
Keeping warm
I’ll remember it
Every restless night
We were so young then
We thought that everything
We could possibly do was right
Then we moved
Stolen from our very eyes
And I wondered where you went to
Tell me when did the light die

You will rise
You’ll return
The phoenix from the flame
You will learn
You will rise
You’ll return
Being what you are
There is no other Troy
For you to burn

And I never meant to hurt you
I swear I didn’t mean
Those things I said
I never meant to do that to you
Next time I’ll keep my hands to myself instead
Oh, does she love you
What do you want to do?
Does she need you like I do?

Do you love her?
Is she good for you?
Does she hold you like I do?
Do you want me?
Should I leave?
I know you’re always telling me
That you love me
Just sometimes I wonder
If I should believe
Oh, I love you
God, I love you
I’d kill a dragon for you
I’ll die

But I will rise
And I will return
The Phoenix from the flame
I have learned
I will rise
And you’ll see me return
Being what I am
There is no other Troy
For me to burn

And you should’ve left the light on
You should’ve left the light on
Then I wouldn’t have tried
And you’d never have known
And I wouldn’t have pulled you tighter
No, I wouldn’t have pulled you close
I wouldn’t have screamed
No, I can’t let you go
And the door wasn’t closed
No, I wouldn’t have pulled you to me
No, I wouldn’t have kissed your face
You wouldn’t have begged me to hold you
If we hadn’t been there in the first place
Ah but I know you wanted me to be there oh-oh
Every look that you threw told me so
But you should’ve left the light on
You should’ve left the light on

And the flames burned away
But you’re still spitting fire
Make no difference what you say
You’re still a liar
You’re still a liar
You’re still a liar


No Second Troy

BY WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS

Why should I blame her that she filled my days
With misery, or that she would of late
Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways,
Or hurled the little streets upon the great,
Had they but courage equal to desire?
What could have made her peaceful with a mind
That nobleness made simple as a fire,
With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind
That is not natural in an age like this,
Being high and solitary and most stern?
Why, what could she have done, being what she is?
Was there another Troy for her to burn?


Nostalgia, the nineties and Sinéad O’Connor

CPE

I'm routinely overestimated.

%d bloggers like this: