oh, my love
they prevent the light from the sky
for my expatriation a home under the passion
if I have the sound of wind
I would draw a way of spring
that Scheherazade will stop telling about it
an endless yearning
an endless yearning
Rage of caged Arabian sand.
Rulers never change, they’ll hold out their hand to you - but it’s a bloody hand -
they put their men in the control room,
but if they want your heart, don’t let them have it.
Seize them by the hair, turn your brothers into rebels,
throw grains into the satellites’ eyes.
You deserve more than a fake peace,
more than the bad people who keep telling too many lies about you.
there are no stars in this darkness
In the era of god of iron
all angels are gone
an endless silent
an endless silent
beatitude for who saw the light of enchantment
and touch the morning while it is dewy
beatitude for who intent from the sky by the way of hope
by the way of hope
What’s left is nothing but clouds of dust,
a heap of guilt that gets cleared through a coup d’état.
The wind is blowing from the west and it’s already spreading the usual lies that they tell from the frontline.1
Suddenly, people who are far away - distracted by a flat screen -
don’t know what to say.
But civilians do live among tombs.
The strength drops, the anger grows
here are no stars in this darkness
In the era of god of iron
all angels are gone
an endless silent
an endless silent
beatitude for who saw the light of enchantment
and touch the morning while it is dewy
beatitude for who intent from the sky by the way of hope
by the way of hope
beatitude for who saw the light of enchantment
and touch the morning while it is dewy
beatitude for who intent from the sky by the way of hope
by the way of hope