| Fast, without a story the past falls
|
| After so many windy days
|
| A nameless new fog comes
|
| All that you may hear is just a lost noise…
|
| Like a feverish hell’s drone
|
| In this petrified hill
|
| Anyway here it comes
|
| Looking like unforeseen joy
|
| In the end, as a thief
|
| As a silly memory
|
| Stealing on stars on stars
|
| And their everlasting fire
|
| Summertime, secretely
|
| Here it comes with its nonsense
|
| Stealing any revenge
|
| And the voice of the dumb dead
|
| Stealing both Satan’s blood
|
| And every possible last hope
|
| S’got your face, your language
|
| Your all-time depressing voice
|
| Your postcards from the world
|
| Sent off when you were a star
|
| All the wanton lies you always spread
|
| And all the allies you always had
|
| Are now close to burn down
|
| Unreal oblivion without sound
|
| Makes everything more ghostly while
|
| So still appears the garden
|
| S’got the grudge you always had
|
| And the snobbery of whom
|
| Has a friend, maybe dead
|
| His stuffed body in the lounge
|
| S’got the grudge you always had
|
| And the snobbery of whom
|
| Had a love, time ago…
|
| Who killed you before your crimes… |