The sea is not to blame for desolated source
It licks the wounds of nature with no use anymore
The hall of gravering speaks softly opullently sorrow
Just buy your memories or anything they werth
Think of these birds humming have it the ears
Beautiful fairy-tales for bird as night skies of tomorrow
For all the number ones and for the future times
For thing that history is weaving
For all the burning suns and every gentle sign
Spreading their matted wings and leaving
The country left my birds is getting to weed
The country left my birds now slowly falls asleep
The sea is full of lifeless drown in cold black waves
Ghost of the past are slowly rising from their graves
And leaving
Leaving
Leaving
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