Bring it to your lips and experience the sulfur infect everything that we´ve created.
Don´t twist this around.
Don´t attempt to justify what we know is wrong.
Tendons are torn and screams are released into a poisoned, mathematic atmosphere.
We´re composing our funeral songs, note by note.
With this I declare that tomorrow is an allusion.
What if the clouds are fragments of mistakes,
fabricated by the factories of our foolishness?
We´re composing our funeral songs, note by note.
Prove me wrong.