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