On the walls are written wicked words,
Behind the glass are wicked eyes.
The moon runs along the sky like a teardrop
From the last angel.
Rain, caught in a beam of light,
Becomes liquid fire.
I am like a little boy with a thorn in his heart,
and it hurts more and more with every passing day.
And so I looked for new hands- I was even fine with dying- just so I could pull out this foreign thing by its roots.
–
But each time I try, my new fingers only make it hurt all the more...
I was born with this thorn
And I'll die with it...
I was born with this thorn
And I'll die with it...
I know– I was wrong.
I know– I've often sinned.
If you'll stop the rain,
Perhaps I'll have the strength
To go outside and try
To be happy again
But you don't hear my prayers,
And the rain is coming all the stronger.
I was born with this thorn
And I'll die with it...
I was born with this thorn
And I'll die with it...