We are the images on cold grey walls,
clinging to that which is long yet past.
Meaningless, fruitless and hopeless we are,
pitiful shadows forever to last .
Time exists where nothing else can …
what has become of a race called man?
Among the ruins the wind will ever mourn
and we are the shadows so forlorn.
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 8:59 AM UTC
We are the images on cold grey walls,
clinging to that which is long yet past.
Meaningless, fruitless and hopeless we are,
pitiful shadows forever to last .
Time exists where nothing else can …
what has become of a race called man?
Among the ruins the wind will ever mourn
and we are the shadows so forlorn.
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