Sirens awake to the sound of a rural cry, whilst our children turn in theirn unfilled graves, the framework of sculptures. And of rotting hearts, they gather round and come what may, sleep under their forked tongued shepheard.
In it's hurricane, grievous angels float above. Yet ignore the mercy, we drink tonight in aid of envy's liquor, whilst your mothers die of a broken heart. The clocks turn to reep what he sewed, and grace the wildlife. The thorn bush is hungry and the deer is taunting.
The rabbit hole is deep at last.
The lake where we have dove, is shallow and dry, and our masters line up to resolve their sins.
The framework of sculptures and of rotted hearts. Left to wander the barren wastelands.
With broken ideals, the smoke arising.
And the hypocrites kneel, palms to their face they cannot see their own impurities.
And the chapel is worn, the mark of their cult is wrapped around the shawl of virgins. Memories of a once great new age are now forgotten.
We are not forgiven, we will not heal.Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
