You're at war,
Ev'rything burns in your hands.
Line of thoughts -
A blade in your palms.
And wine breaks the voice,
Like glass, that had been grinded
And then one day, has turned to dust.
It's not yet evening
Under this very heart
Another's body.
It's not too late:
A spark, sun hasn't burned out.
Behind you there's pain
Like blind revenge.
But the battle will show
Home is not a fortress anymore.
And water runs under a stone, grinding it with fast flows, until
One day it will have turned to dust.
It's not yet evening
Under this very heart
A stranger's body.
It's not too late:
A spark, sun hasn't burned out.