Idioma Origen:
This flesh holds me captive and in quest of liberation...
As the sheep flock in the dissonance, I tread in dissent.
To the piercing light that sears our hearts;
To the sickness that plagues our spirits...
I cannot revere in this blind acceptance and falter in my comprehension.
Forfeit my injured soul, this affliction I respire!
Heal this restless spirit ? that bestowed naught.
Heal this heart that approached the world, as I relegate ? I consign!
Heal my heart, my weeping soul...
I consign this putrid flesh.
Nothing here, nobody there...
Erroneous illness shouting.
The outcry reviles this tattered soil...
Drowning the world in filth and distortion.
Forfeit my injured soul, this affliction I respire!
Heal this restless spirit ? that bestowed naught.
Heal this heart that approached the world, as I relegate ? I consign!
Heal my heart, my weeping soul...
I consign this putrid flesh.
I?ll leave my conscience to die.
A barrenness of dreams and anticipation;
Life and hope shrivel into the void.
Heal this heart that approached the world, as I relegate ? I consign!
Heal my heart, my weeping soul...
I consign this putrid flesh.
In this pantheon of sorrow,
We are everything, yet nothing!
And as long we?re breathing,
The burden devoid of conclusion!
Unaided I slither ? ravaged, silent and alone.
I smolder in anxious strife; I decline these exhausted remnants of decay.
The world is coming to an end; a vast ocean of disease...
All hope is lost... or perhaps this is the cradle of salvation.
I must tranquil these turbulent waters.
No more expressions shall leave my trait...
No further words shall be spoken.
This illness they conceived broke my tired wings.
Idioma Destino:
This flesh holds me captive and in quest of liberation...
As the sheep flock in the dissonance, I tread in dissent.
To the piercing light that sears our hearts;
To the sickness that plagues our spirits...
I cannot revere in this blind acceptance and falter in my comprehension.
Forfeit my injured soul, this affliction I respire!
Heal this restless spirit ? that bestowed naught.
Heal this heart that approached the world, as I relegate ? I consign!
Heal my heart, my weeping soul...
I consign this putrid flesh.
Nothing here, nobody there...
Erroneous illness shouting.
The outcry reviles this tattered soil...
Drowning the world in filth and distortion.
Forfeit my injured soul, this affliction I respire!
Heal this restless spirit ? that bestowed naught.
Heal this heart that approached the world, as I relegate ? I consign!
Heal my heart, my weeping soul...
I consign this putrid flesh.
I?ll leave my conscience to die.
A barrenness of dreams and anticipation;
Life and hope shrivel into the void.
Heal this heart that approached the world, as I relegate ? I consign!
Heal my heart, my weeping soul...
I consign this putrid flesh.
In this pantheon of sorrow,
We are everything, yet nothing!
And as long we?re breathing,
The burden devoid of conclusion!
Unaided I slither ? ravaged, silent and alone.
I smolder in anxious strife; I decline these exhausted remnants of decay.
The world is coming to an end; a vast ocean of disease...
All hope is lost... or perhaps this is the cradle of salvation.
I must tranquil these turbulent waters.
No more expressions shall leave my trait...
No further words shall be spoken.
This illness they conceived broke my tired wings.