Muttering at the end of the hall
When the scythe lays reflecting a white moon
"Goodnight Irene," whispers a prayer
No one that lives present has a say here

Each second that passes
Means a step toward the gate
Though fate touches some
There are many left behind
Licking the cerberuses dried tongue

Morning, night
Both hold the same grudge
A delirium of pressing proportions
That will turn any master work
Into a child's glittery firework

Hear the wind pass through
Dead children's waving hair
All I see are the burning grey trees
And a place that once was alive
But now is filled with every kind of disease

Hold the the throat of the man that has taken
Your love your treasure your dream under dreams
All these sheets of cloth cannot protect you
The bed is burning beneath you
And as the church bells ring for their final time
God is not there to show you some kind of sign

Though the mind seems insane
The mind is also sane
Each drop of water to waver the balance
That falls from a sky full of grace
Shows sweet reseliance of the minds of us

Sweet brown whiskey water
That tastes of the settng sun
Each drip of the drop does not bother
You act as if a long lost brother