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Haven't seen the sun for seven days |
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November's got her nails dug in deep |
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Haven't seen my son for seven years |
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And the chances are we'll never again meet |
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If truth be told, |
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I don't even know his name |
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If truth be told, he doesn't even know my name |
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I spend my spare time with my rosary beads |
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Although I never learnt to pray |
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But you don't need the light and it's best to pretend |
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That you've seen the errors of your ways |
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The darkness in here is as heavy as a judgment |
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This darkness, heavy as a judgment |
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My dreams are now filled with |
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Gilead trees |
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And other sights that |
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I've never seen |
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They used to be filled with the fears of tomorrow |
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And the horror that it might bring |
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His eyes felt to me as cold as a stone mason's chisel |
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His eyes fell on me, cold like a stone mason's chisel |
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Strange how a mind can always recall |
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What the senses eagerly leave behind |
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I can remember his face, rage, disgust and distaste |
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But to my fear |
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I have grown blind |
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Memories are just dead men making trouble |
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This memory is just a dead man making trouble |
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Haven't seen the sun for seven days |
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November's got her nails dug in deep |
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Haven't seen my son for seven years |
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And the chances are we'll never again meet |
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Memories are just dead men making trouble |
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This memory is just a dead man making trouble |
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Memories are just dead men making trouble |
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This memory is just a dead man making trouble |
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Making trouble |
