“These doomed village streets I forever walk alone.”
She was dressed in rags of burlap The figure of our scorn Skin cracked round her withered stare On a face all covered in sores
“On your haughty perches An ill wind blows”
Was it one in his frustration? Or all who cast the stones? In the end drunk on our disgust We stared down at the bloodied crone.
“For those who laugh at you Will be the first to come and watch you die”
Death came to us all that winter, To the lucky ones at least. Fathers fell to the fever Sisters stricken by the sadness
It grew inside us all One by one they met their fate And I stood in my home I knew the hour was growing late.
But the years go by And I’m still waiting For the shrouded figure To open the gates
Dressed in rags I walk alone A figure of mockery and constant hateTeksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
