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• Artiste: The Amenta
• Titre: Dirt
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Every morning after Will be shades of grey. All spotlight sunrise Or bruised Sunset. When the clock stops And everything is stale and still. And the rust finally shows On everything we've gathered: All of your plans All of your promises. All those Revolutions Your resolve. All of your power And all your pride. Will all be nothing Nothing but dirt. In the end what remains? Not the body. Nor forgotten hours, Drowned in drink. Our lives flicker. The soul is just A collusion of senses. It's just our deeds That see morning. Book ended by black. We are water dripping From leaking, rusted taps. The sound of clocks Twitching through dust. We are: flickering embers In dusty ashtrays We are the dirt. We are just dregs. We are water dripping From rusted taps. We are dirt. This is all we paint: Blank canvas, blank canvas. Humanity is aches. Creaking joints, Hunched shoulders. Traces of blood on bed sheets. Persistent benign tumours. This is all we paint. All of your power And all your pride, Will all be nothing Nothing but dirt. In the end what remains? Not the body. Nor forgotten hours, Drowned in drink. Our lives flicker. The soul is just A collusion of senses. It's just our deeds That see morning. Book ended by black. We are water dripping From leaking, rusted taps. The sound of clocks Twitching through dust. We are: flickering embers In dusty ashtrays We are the dirt. We are just dregs. We are water dripping From rusted taps. We are dirt.