The ruins hide an artist
whose own crimson ink coats the stone,
boulders tarnished
as the head and body sink

Cold, inert wasteland
hides gruesome memories
buried deep below the sand
soldiers of wasted bravery

The rift open in world
here is stitched with will
only the wind has whirled
But stones, they won't stand still

The ghosts entrapped in dirt
may cry with silent voice
forever lost in desert
as if they had a choice.

---

Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.