"It's Not An Art, It's A Myth"

Beau Navire

Compositor: Não Disponível

Ghastly this place has become
Once a sacred place of old, beautiful and tranquil
This unnatural disease has left your limbs bare
No room to breathe, no chance to give
The wind like waves buries the land
It hurts to know that you’re no longer full of life and dancing
No color, no emotion
The raspy shrill of agony is heard by no one
These bare trees bear no fruit