The records for the souls
Willing ears unaware of the tolls

The weapons with reasons innumberable,
To break that delicate hold.
Every man grasps until his grip becomes old

Displaced memories filled with rage,
Happiness converted into covetry,
Longing for when you were bold.
Begging to undo what rhythms unfold

Mold, grow,
Be what you set out to be,
With this tree that's already grown.

On your back, looking up,
In bliss, or with your being torn.

Down the middle, and at every side
begging from the skies where only the devils preside.

Call his name, he has your name written on his line,
I tell you my brothers, what's been sold isn't our time.

Wake up, we aren't slumbering,
we are just fine.