| The murmur grows — until they rage
|
| It is not a scenery
|
| At this market-place in middle-ages
|
| Somebody — in the crowd —
|
| Speaks a prayer
|
| Hundred burning torches rise
|
| In their light appears the silhouette
|
| Of a mighty FUNeral pile
|
| Headling with some unknown herbs
|
| — Rising suspicion —
|
| «Death» — they say —
|
| «is what she deserves!»
|
| — An innocent victim —
|
| «Instruments of torture
|
| Will tell us the truth!»
|
| And it feels like
|
| Oooohhh…
|
| «I'm representing the church
|
| Somebody said, in you might lurk
|
| Things — still not seen by human eyes
|
| Is is dark magic, you are practicing?»
|
| After there are no tears left
|
| And they thought, they’d feaced the fact
|
| «Nothing is as it should be
|
| You’re accused of witchery!»
|
| «If there is a creator
|
| If there is a god…
|
| You will pay for all the dead
|
| There’s punishment above!
|
| And somebody outside
|
| This chamber of horror
|
| Knows my fear, knows my sorrow
|
| YOU preach, how could I learn?
|
| 'cause in this faith is
|
| CHARITY ABSURD!"
|
| After this words wer spoken
|
| The cowd wants to see her die
|
| The way to the confessor
|
| Will it be the last one in her life?
|
| The murmur grows — until they rage
|
| And somebody speaks a prayer
|
| A prayer… |