Father,
Take away this cup from me
If you can
Thy will be done, not mine
Thy will be done, not mine
Death,
I forced your cup to these mouth
With iron hands
My will is done, not their
To destroy and create new bitter life
Oh how often tenderness can be
Nothing more than a cruel stained mirror
Beyond which it carefully hides
The coldest form of detachment
Atrocity lies right there, beside your agonies
Atrocity laughs beside your agonies
And then you serenely contemplate
These mountains of mercy
Slowly slough off in mountains of corpses
Climbing one or another
With the seed of sin
So well disguised with robes of repentance
Mother,
Speak to me from heavenly skies
If you can
Your will was done, not mine
Your will was done, not mine
And life,
Hear my words, these will be my last:
Soon you will love me
As a dead is loved
Love me as a dead is loved
Cast away your pain-stained shroud
For in the whisper of loss I choose to be
And I desperately wrap my spirit away
From these cruel laws of mortality
For how often a smiling face can be
Nothing more than a cruel stained mirror
Beyond which it carefully hides
The most evil form of horror
Atrocity lies right there, beside your agonies
Atrocity laughs beside your agonies
Continuously you mould its winding shape
Continuously it laughs beside your pain
With clothes made of sins
Of sins and good intentions
With clothes made of anger
Of anger and candid pardon
Of martyrs and righteous torturers
Of death, of stench and serene lives
Of pity, of shame and distant coldness
Of fire, of water!
Of love, burnt offerings and terror
Of charity, blood and sadism and horror
Of hate in form of weakness
Of bread, of knives in the back!
Staring at you on this fathomless night
Finding correlation only to find myself
Wandering...
Wandering...
Of loss
Innocence buried away
Trapped inside
To never come back again
Nevermore!
I wish you'll never grown
Life, love, life,
Do you really think I need you?
Do you really think I need you?
And I was forced to commit sin, do sin, do sin
But what is sin?
When prospective falls apart
When prospective falls apart...
It's wonderful from here, you know...?
My clothes are made of anger
Of anger and candid pardon
My clothes are made of martyrs
Of martyrs and righteous torturers
My clothes are made of death
Of stench and serene life
My clothes are made of nothing
Of nothing, because...
I am buried away
Trapped somewhere
To never come back again
Nevermore, nevermore!
I wish you'll never grown
Life, love, life,
Do you really think I need you?
Do you really think I need you?
