The day will come at a redrawing of the boundaries when Pilsudski will rear his head in Iberia,
Because he's been moving west for centuries,
Creeping every time that Mazzini turns in his grave.
And I have watched his drift with sallow skin and with longing for the western coasts where he would lay his head and get well.
For he has caught a disease that makes him bleed when breathing.
They sent him south for the cure to the shores of the Starnbergersee.
So the day will come when I pack my things and move west into the setting sun,
Because my strength has failed,
I am fading.
So will you till my fields and will you tend my sheep until I get back,
Because I will be coming home,
My health restored.
And if Josef can lose himself in the dark of the continent then surely there must be a way that I can cough up the last of the continent and lose myself.
Nineteenth Century science cannot soother my chest.
Staggering through Europe,
I keep on heading west.
My medicine is a setting sun.