| We dream like lions
|
| Warm in the frost
|
| Fresh from the kill
|
| Tiny teeth and claws
|
| We dream like lions
|
| Deep beneath the loam
|
| The windows of his soul
|
| Ash on the watery glass
|
| Broken but still whole
|
| A halo of barbwire
|
| A frozen night of fire
|
| Oh, so cold
|
| We dream like lions
|
| Below and above
|
| The wooly little lambs
|
| That look a lot like us We dream like lions
|
| The dark poles of the weeping trees cradle him close in the heavy breeze.
|
| Crumbs for the crows, slow empire of worms. |
| We sing the cry of countless
|
| broken souls, «the world is made of razorblades, they choke on the words
|
| they’ll never say, I wish it could change, but it will always be this way.»
|
| We dream like lions
|
| Warm in the frost
|
| Fresh from the kill
|
| Tiny teeth and claws
|
| We dream like lions
|
| We dream like lions
|
| Below and above
|
| The wooly little lambs
|
| That look a lot like us We dream like lions |