Give it up, stop following me to the sycamore tree When betrayals icily wither solace. Turn on your heels and stop following me to the astral brink. So drop the key and forget the door. On the outskirts of astral, in the springs of the black water, Stone against stone, flesh against spirit. The science of forgetting, which many ones search, Is taken by none as a gift. But the only concept that the oblivion is a true gift Can not be taken there, As this may be understood by very few.
Life strained against my throat with a rusty growl, Trampling upon love and every clean message. Child's blood drained from the mirror of the eyes of a demon. And I would like to remember your name, But it's me who broke all the roads to those memories. And I would have broken the glass door into the subtle world, And I would run there with no thought of return, Smelling the harsh odor of that long ago lost day.
It will respond you, it will respond you…
Among the myriads of crossroads, ours is the one That won't cross the related paths anymore. Cold blood, cold senses in the breath Of the omnipresent earthly void. Though I still crave, calling out Toth's name in the splits of astral. Trying to steal a glance in the Book of Life, Hearing as the bile of the newborn cries And the mocking pride of the foolish youth Transform into the deep deathbed curses of the old man. Stop following me to the sycamore tree…Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
