The wall on which the prophets wrote
is cracking at the seams.
upon the instruments of death
the sunlight brightly gleams.
when every man is torn apart
with nightmares and with dreams,
will no one lay the laurel wreath
as silence drowns the screams.
Between the iron gates of fate,
the seeds of time were sown,
and watered by the deeds of those
who know and who are known;
knowledge is a deadly friend
when no one sets the rules.
the fate of all mankind i see
is in the hands of fools.
Confusion will be my epitaph.
as i crawl a cracked and broken path
if we make it we can all sit back and laugh,
but i fear tomorrow i'll be crying,
yes i fear tomorrow i'll be crying.