Carved In Stigmata Wounds by Secrets Of The Moon
Let them have their final martyrium Let them come with spear and lance Let them impale When all is gone anyway Let them come with a greater smile When all is over anyway Hail miasma Reigning and raging and raining Leaving reality behind Everywhere There once was a colour In galaxies blinding Giving them a chance to foresee There once was a circle Behaving like insects in webs Possessed by will Not dead yet There once was a field In a desolate nation A field with space for millions to come There once was a funeral With a guidance to understand