The
wall on which the prophets wrote Is cracking at the seams.
Upon the instruments if death The sunlight brightly gleams.
When every man is torn apart With nightmares and with dreams,
Will no one lay the laurel wreath As silence drowns the screams.
Between the iron gates
of fate, The seeds of time were sown, And watered by the
deeds of those Who know and who are known; Knowledge is
a deadly friend When no one sets the rules. The fate of
all mankind I see Is in the hands of fools.
Confusion will be
my epitaph. As I crawl a cracked and broken path If we make
it we can all sit back and laugh. But I fear tomorrow I'll
be crying, Yes I fear tomorrow I'll be crying. |