How shall the burial rite be heard?
The solemn song be sung?
The requiem for the loveliest dead
That ever died so young?
From the thunder and the storm,
and the cloud he took its form
(when the rest of heaven was blue)
of a demon in my view
Thrilling to think
Poor child of sin
It was the dead who groaned within
Captured in a web of desperate lies
Time has come to die
Colors shift to black and white
I see the night
There is no light
Visions twisted in your brain
All your thoughts have gone away
and you have gone insane |
