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A sense of place, a sense of waste, don't know how this can be... |
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The silence that envelops me, whispers something, subtly |
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Exhale and change the atmosphere |
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They've left a trace of their fear... |
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How could something like this have happened in a place like this? |
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Such mindless violence.. |
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The surroundings hold their secrets |
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How could something like this have happened in a place like this? |
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A new day is here, but there's a trace of yesterday |
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Here the trees can speak, in voices weak that suggest a tale of pain |
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Of tears shed in the pouring rain... |
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But at that, they halt their sad refrain |
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Look up, at the vault of starts and the calming harvest moon |
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A witness to the unspeakable, and easily repeatable |
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Cry out to change the atmosphere |
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Some kind of presence is here... |
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How could something like this have happened in a place like this? |
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Such mindless violence.. |
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The surroundings hold their secrets |
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How could something like this have happened in a place like this? |
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A new day is here, but there's a trace of yesterday |
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Red wine spilled on the carpet - we can clean it up |
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Tracks left on the beach that the tides wash away |
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Footprints dug deep in the snow - they'll melt away |
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But what can wash the stain away from this place? |
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A new day is here |
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There are traces of yesterday |
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This place is stained - what will it take to wash them away |
