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The trees are listening each time a missile's made |
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They hide three mystics the earth sends from her grave |
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To tell us the future has been stolen away |
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By diggers, drillers and sellers |
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But we won't stop 'till we're under a black sky |
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He took my picture int he cemetery sun |
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My body was tempted to crumble into one |
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Reunion of dust until creation's done |
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Returning ashes to ashes |
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We won't stop 'till we're underneath a black sky |
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The commerce the intrigue |
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Self-slaughtered souls cry out to dead poor men |
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For a drink at the water hole |
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But their tongues will burn dry |
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As the day they were sold for |
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Forests raped into deserts |
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We won't stop 'till we're underneath a black sky |
