Some sort of god was shot down..
In the peace of the comfort-zone..
Every wall of silence broke down..
No satisfaction lasts till the end..
One cannot be free
from the grip of death..
One can only try to forget.

Years of guilt and pain..
Crash on to the brain..
But the price is priceless...
That's what the struggle of life is..

Once the dust lies still..
The rubble is visible...
Ruins of misfortune..
Were castles of deceipt...

Shiny on the outside..
Rotten on the inside..
The sound from the torturechambers
Still echo through the moldy halls
Only to fade..
When the spirits of the slain..
Cease to cling..
To the perfect dream...
For the dream
Was never to be real...

The dry heat of the wind..
Turns the mold to dust..
The rain will wash it all away..
And years go by..
Till the soil is fertile again..

The jungles grow..
From the dead in the earth..
Amidst will stand the ruin..
Of a past memory..
It is covered in ivy
Mosses and fungi..
Animals live..
.. in what used to be chambers..
No one knows the meaning.
Because no one remembers.