Take my hand In the old "Theatre Of Seven Hells"; A ferry bowed its wings, Called "Moon by Day". Life - a book In foreign tongue that hurts our ears. Flowers of the end, Their seeds shall grow. Your breath - my coat, The underworld is, oh, so cold. The dead don't feel the chill, But, please, hold me warm. The aweful night has gone; What lay before we can't remember. Morpheus has drowned In the lament of a weeping shadow...
Take my hand In the old "Theatre Of Seven Hells"; A ferry bowed its wings, We call her: "Moon by Day". Life - a book In foreign tongue that hurts our ears. Flowers of the end, Their seeds shall grow. Your breath shall be my coat, The underworld is, oh, so cold. The dead don't feel the chill, But, please, hold me warm. The aweful night has gone; What came before we can't remember. Morpheus has drowned In the lament of a weeping shadow...