All the distant nights
That vanished from my mind
Hang like glistening knives
In the back of my mind

I can almost see
The phantoms gone in the past
What could I ever trade
For all that's escaped in time?

What can dreams be if nothing ever lasts
In a future where everything's made of glass
Each moment carves a piece away
Of the sculpture shaped by the passing of days

Hands ever change the days
As monuments turn [bad word] 
In the grasp of the infinite
All mountains [bad word] to dust
Arising from nothing
The short dance of existing
We're always shifting
And always [bad word]