---

He screams in his own puddle
He lies in his deathbed
as his broken face looks straight into me
the wind comes 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 know what you mean to me
i rub my eyes so i can't see
'cause when to 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 light comes the next
always stuck sorrounded by the same walls

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

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