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作曲 : Anna-Varney Cantodea |
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作词 : Anna-Varney Cantodea |
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When the old ghost of suicide |
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creeps slowly back into your mind |
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then everything is bleak and blurred |
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down here in the short-sighted world |
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Yet this time I have to insist |
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on the sharpness of the things I missed |
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this once so loyal friend he's not that welcome anymore |
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White fragile porcelain-boy |
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some minor things shall be left unsaid |
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yes you share the strongest desire for beauty |
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as like all the enchanted you are more than blessed with it |
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The boy is a prison-cell that like a child needs to be washed and fed |
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These are just two of the things that I have a tendency to forget |
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The heavy smell of rotting flowers is chanting through the prison doors |
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We kiss the dying world goodbye and leave it in good hands at the morque |
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Well on the second day of excavation |
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tell me what did you expect to find |
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Be careful when you scratch the surface |
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cause we all have a dog to exercise |
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We are not lovers we are LIKERS |
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We are merely hands and shake |
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there are just FOUR from the list of the numberless things |
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of which we're still afraid |
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We are not familiar with the state of （y）our decay |
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Because this is not our line it is not really our trade |
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All we know is that our feet are cold |
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and that our sticky hands are wet |
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and that we're here to bring you tidings |
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straight from the CHOIR OF THE DEAD |
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Look at the boy oh he really suffers |
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he's caught in fear and its distress |
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there's no point in looking at him for answers |
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because he is a stranger here himself |
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The body is a prison-cell |
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that like a child needs to be washed and fed |
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there are just two of the things that I have a tendency to forget |
