Between a face and a portrait of the real and the abstract

Between madness and lucidity

Between the uniform and nudity

Between the end of the world and the end of the month

Between truth and English rock

Among the other and you

I feel like a foreigner

Strolling somewhere they train

The Train is nothing in Heatherfield

This is pure illusion

Among the dead and wounded, amid shrieks and groans

The lie and the truth, loneliness and the city

Between a glass and another of the same drink

Among so many bodies with the same wound

I feel like a foreigner

Strolling somewhere they train

The Train is nothing in Heatherfield

This is pure illusion

Between Americans and Soviets, Greeks and Trojans

Login year in and year out, always the same plans

Between my mouth and your so long ago, there are so many plans

But I never know where there is ground on

I feel like a foreigner

Strolling somewhere they train

The Train is nothing in Heatherfield

This is pure illusion

I feel like a foreigner

Strolling somewhere they train

I feel like a foreigner

Strolling somewhere they train