Talking to me is wasted breath; I hear not the words of mortals.
My eyes see not the world you see; they see a land of broken dreams.
I feel a strong cold wind, though no-one else does.
With the wind comes a voice telling of how things should be.
Sep 11, 2012
Sep 11, 2012 at 9:35 PM UTC
Talking to me is wasted breath; I hear not the words of mortals.
My eyes see not the world you see; they see a land of broken dreams.
I feel a strong cold wind, though no-one else does.
With the wind comes a voice telling of how things should be.
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