These Low Lands - Swallow The Sun

Weakness of the past

Like vapor in the trenches

These lowlands haunted

By a man clad in frost

All evil deeds done

Are piled up into hills

And visible on the left side

Fields of bad omens

Behind the skyline

The worst noise of the world

Violent crows of this dream

Flying backwards

Open below us Another swarm grows

Feel like tumors

Which shall return

And every night someone

Moves all the clocks forward

And the sun seems to Set always at the sunrise

No one leaves this place

No roads out from here

No passing birds ever

Really do pass by No one entering here

Walks without trembling

No one ever dreams of The hands of tender fathers