Your Spit as a Flower On the Tomb in Me - Beyond the Dream

This place I’ve never seen before*

Goes by the name of cruelty

Thunder cracks among black clouds

And the rain reminds me of tears of beauty

You cruel teaser, from foolishness I’ll suffer

Just me alone, my kind of last… supper

When no one is here to hear…

When no one is here to share…

No one is here to hear me

No one is here to share

My thoughts, my dreams I did hide out-side of my sleep

Walking on road in thickening night

Where left hands path is right for feeble minded!

The sky keeps bleeding above me

While your spit is like the flower on the tomb in me…

Your spit, as a flower on the tomb in me

Running on road in thickening night where left-hand path

Is right for feeble minded, truly blinded and, naive

The sky keeps bleeding above me

While your spit, is like the flower on the tomb in me…

Your spit as a flower on the tomb in me…

The story goes on and on

I’ll keep on begging for more and more

This is the way the story writes itself:

«What should I do with this

Would you please tell me

What should I do when story is writing… itself?»

The sky keeps bleeding above me

While your spit, is like the flower on the tomb in me…

Your spit as a flower on the tomb in me

The sky keeps bleeding above me

While your spit, is like the flower on the tomb in me…

Your spit as a flower on the tomb in me…