The simple slave, in sweat-soaked sheets, aims his shackles, and cuts off his hands. The simple slave, in smoggy pantheon, aims for release, and cuts off his head. Apollo falls asleep behind the wheel. A scar reopens to a wound and pleads in a whimper for infection. And now this great dying beast, that I've chained round my neck, in a torrent of feathers, a face of paper cuts. Fragile tributaries of blood stain powder white wings, framed and catalogued for collection. The simple slave, in fallow fields, shrugs off his burden, and falls asleep.Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
