The storm is over, silence lays on the fields,
Riders are waiting in the middle of this nihil.
The power of giants, titans, eye of the cylops,
Still, it is. Still. The still of a drunken sailor.
Fingers on legs, higher and higher, flesh is desire
For the hunger of the lifeless, no dream, no drama,
And the wisest advice of beeing here and now
Became the hedonistic flag of a wov, of a whore.
Whos the one, which is the One? Are we undone?
For they eternally asked, that Whats behind?,
When there was no behind, stone as stone,
Ashes as ashes, dust as dust, and a riddle: Mankind.
The power of religion is at hand, in the eyes,
In the letters of self-elected preachers: Friends,
No time to waste as my dog dies, no tears to hide,
No fiddle in the heads, when a friend dies, no behind.
Are the voices of rebirth as Me the beauty in your eyes?
Where are the seeds of Man to let Me rebirth as Abel dies?
A storm is approachig, a finger in the air, clouds of despair,
And the finger is still there, even the hearts not beating,
(And the fingers are there) in the middle of the night raging,
(In the middle of )the night waiting for a world Undone. |
