歌词
Take my hand in the old '
Theatre Of
Seven Hells', a ferry that bowed its wings, we call
Her: 'Moon by
Day'. Life - a book of painful tongue that hurts our ears.
Flowers of the end, their seed shall grow.
Your breath shall be my coat, the underworld is, oh, so cold.
The dead don't feel chill, but please, hold me warm.
The aweful night has gone; what lay before... we can't remember.
Even Morpheus has drowned in the lament of his own weeping shadow...