The annual promise of winter's cold, of Atlantic's...
Speaks more now, seems less then...

Hold your breath
Too wary, too cold...

They wait for then, and in the end
The lead machines will eat the men...

Broken bones bred this
Broken home...

Everlasting time eating up a meal
Decorated brain-men, fated to die...

Opening doors
Closing lives...

The breaking clouds might win again
They will never be my friends...

You won’t live the years of
Your life...

So I will sit here
And I'll let you remain...

Mud of blood and earth
Beneath these feet...

What is a knife
But an escape from bitter endings...

I can see your thousand lives
Atoned within the skies...