Daylight breaks and the blackbirds call.
|
And the market stalls are all filling up.
|
Spilling over the street.
|
High above over Notting Hill
|
I am floating still in a wooden chair
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With our restless dog.
|
|
I¡¯ve been away so long I almost forgot how time and space
|
Cannot replace this feeling
|
Of flying over things.
|
Now you¡¯re falling awake your sleepy face begins to register
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That I¡¯m coming home.
|
Yeah I¡¯m coming home to you.
|
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On a Sunday only we know
|
Where the sunlight and the wind blows.
|
Over bluebells, over Blackheath.
|
Calling your name I will float through your window.
|
|
Major third
|
Or a minor seventh.
|
I¡¯m a violin tuned a little sharp.
|
Tuned a little below.
|
Coming around the bend the hallway ends.
|
The chair it dips and then it bends.
|
And it has wings for legs.
|
Now you¡¯re deep in a dream
|
The sheets and pillowcases seem to overtake your head.
|
I¡¯m at the foot of our bed.
|
|
On a Sunday only we know
|
Where the sunlight and the wind blows.
|
Over bluebells, over Blackheath.
|
Calling your name I will float through your window.
|
|
Break through the silence.
|
The gulf that¡¯s between us.
|
Take all the heartache and bullshit that builds up.
|
And we will unravel
|
Unravel the moments.
|
Yeah we will unravel
|
Unravel the moments.
|
|
On a Sunday only we know
|
Where the sunlight and the wind blows.
|
Over bluebells, over Blackheath.
|
Calling your name I will come to your window.
|
|
I¡¯ll be calling your name as I float through your window.
|
|
-----------------
|
The Tuning of Violins
|
| Darren Hayes |
