He screams in his own puddle
He lies in his deathbed
as his broken face looks straight into me
the [bad word] swift through
the violins start to sound the waterfalls as
i see my grasp to life unchain
as i outstretch my hand
to the wuonded brother

and even knowing what you mean to me
 [bad word] my eyes so i can't see
'cause when too far away
to perceive
i stand
here by my side
here by my hand
the arid dry grossness in me
remains still
remains still, still

i try to keep my eyes from closing

but i speak disregarding
the possible annhilation
of entire cities
where brothers turn to numbers
we are all just pawns in a game

and after all
even here the material
is the same

this artwork of thick drapery rests on a white altar, a white altar

Our portarit is sorrounded by
the figure of an elder in a black coffin
writing her own epitaph
on these jagged rocks lost children
point the fingers to blame eachother
to blame eachother
and from the [bad word] the next
always stuck sorrounded by the same walls

He walks down that same old road, road
and falls in that same old hole