Из альбома: Bright Apocalypse
It's a little spooky if I think of it at all
whenever I come in here words start bouncing off the walls
some hocus pocus in these crosses that I hang
turns a prayer into a boomerang
I say, "When will the chosen act?"
and the words come falling back
"How long will you stand by?"
There is no reply, only echoes
Start a bush on fire if it means a little proof
but don't let these phrases just float up and hit the roof
this room where I think answering belongs
always shifts and sounds a question twice as strong
I say, "When will the chosen act?"
and the words keep turning back
"How long will you stand by?"
There is no reply, only echoes
Maybe the Universe is clogging up Your ears
in Your old age You're just repeating what You hear