I. The Dream Ends

This is where the dream ends
Where the soul of every man and woman is broken
Where you carry your crippled children in hope of salvation
And you will lay them down to die
For salvation does not come
And the worth you have placed upon your life is finally revealed as nothing (x2)

Your weeping and wailing shall assuage no god
Let these words echo deep, deep into your heart
Cease your weeping and wailing
No one can hear you
No one can hear you
My words will cut your flesh like a knife.
For you shall hear them again
And again (x5)
You will hear these words again and again and again


II. Empty Prayers

You can pray to God
You can pray to Allah
You can pray to whomever
He will not hear you
Your empty prayers
You embarrass yourself
Like some infected junkie
You're searching for a fix.
Your god is a needle
Your god is rusted razor
The filth in your blood
The filth in this world


III. Black Propaganda

No machine will grind your bones to dust

This machine will grind your bones to dust
Like it has ground every generation before you
And only now the stakes are higher
And only now the machine runs faster

Children, I call you to war
Was it for this your ancestors died?
Was it for this the land was stained blood red.
Here and now we face the end of all things,
The final and the absolute.
Planting seeds within
The nuclear generation, planting hope where there was none.
A hope that we may sweep all before us and crush their memory.

They say there is nothing left in this world worth fighting for, nothing left in this world worth dying for...
This is a lie.
There is so much to fight for, so much to die for.
There is one true enemy in this world.
Do I need to say it?
Do I need to stain the air with it's name?
Or to soil the page?

A father he sees his children cry out,
And blind they flock, dead to the world.
He sees his women, wailing and weeping.
The mothers of all tragedy
And I your brother, a broken man,
I curse the day I was born.
I curse the day

I ask, what price the martyred man?
Whose hand is turned by the grinding wheels of history?
I ask a simple question.
Who shall stand and who shall fall?
Whose deeds shall become song,
And whose words shall become law?

Do the months, they change?
And do the years, they pass?
It's felt like the same day
For the whole of my life.
I've had one of those dream again
Where all I can see
Is a grey horizon
No more sun is breaking the monotony
A dream devoid of colour,
And devoid of sound
Where I am only greeted by blank faces
Without souls
We are grinding the gears of the grey machine
Of the grey machine

[Instrumental]

You are a sickly child
Without the strength or the will
To meet the weight of this world
Where did we go wrong?
How did we go wrong?
What shall the solution be?
It is not for me to say
How the sick shall meet their end
Yet they shall
And they shall...

My sick, sick child
My sick, sick child
Please listen to me
Whose ills no mother's love could ease
So let me be your sanctuary and let me be your refuge,
So look into my eyes, my child and realize
You are looking down the barrel of a gun
A sick, sick child
Whose ills no mother's love could ease
Let me be your sanctuary and let me be your refuge,
Look into my eyes child, and realize you are looking down the barrel of a gun

Oh sick, sick child!
Whose ills no mother's love could ease
I am your sanctuary
I am your refuge
And look into my eyes, my child, and realize what shall the solution be.

I feel like I've been going nowhere in my life for years
All these empty promises and threats.
It was such a dark static moment when we met.
Nothing felt right
Maybe that's why I went too far
So far...
Beyond sorrow, beyond pain and beyond lust.
The empty silences in our forced conversation
Trying to be what I cannot be
I never felt so alone in my whole life
So alone and desperate to be somewhere else
What in this world can change me?
What in this world can rouse me form my sleep?

My eyes may be open but I see nothing
And my mouth may be open but it is not words I am forming
There is not any language that you can understand
I hear what you are saying, but it makes no sense to me.
It never did
And how did I come to this?
When did I start?
I am dead to the world

The world is black and white in my soundless dream
There is nothing that I can do
Nothing that I can do
So carve me up one last time
And leave me for the dogs

I have no pity
I have no remorse
For these grey lines
That carve me up and sell my soul
No remorse and no pity

Oh, what is it worth?
Is it worth your love?
Or is it worth your compassion?

Every time I dream,
I seem to leave it all
Standing at some deserted train station
I am waiting
I am waiting
I am watching
With and old timetable in my hand
I am willing another cold morning in another city
Or another sunset surrounded by strangers
I need somewhere to rest my head.
I am searching for the whole of my life
My life

E dunque a Dio che giova qust'onda cupa e grande
d'insulti che ogni giorno al suo trono s'avventa?
Cullato dalle nostre bestemmie, s'addormenta,
come un tiranno pago di carni e bevande.

I singhiozzi del martire, del dannato che va
al supplizio son certo salmi cari all'udito,
se a saziare non bastando il celeste appetito,
per quanto sangue costi la loro voluttà?

"Ricordati, Gesù, dell'orto degli ulivi!
Mite, in ginocchio oravi, mentre negli alti abissi rideva il Padre
al sordo rumor dei chiodi,
infissi da ignobili carnefici nelle tue carni vive."

Quando a insozzarti il viso di sacrilega bava
venne un'ebbra ciurmaglia da caserme e cucine,
e ti sentisti premere la corona di spine
sul cranio, ove immensa umanità pulsava;

Quando il tuo corpo, franto dallo scempio sofferto,
gravò d'orrenda soma e ti slogò le braccia,
e sudor misto a sangue per la pallida faccia ti scorse,
e fosti a tutti, come un bersaglio, offerto,

Non ripensasti ai giorni così candidi e belli,
in cui venivi a compiere l'antica profezia,
sopra una mite asina cavalcando per via,
lungo un cammino sparso di fiori e ramoscelli;

In cui con cuor fidente e braccio ardito e franco
hai nel tempio quei vili mercanti fustigato;
in cui fosti il maestro? E non t'è penetrato,
più addentro della lancia, il rimorso nel fianco?

"Quanto a me uscirò senza voltarmi indietro,
da un mondo dove non sa l'atto al sogno seguire";
possa io ferir di spada e di spada perire!
San Pietro ha rinnegato Gesù: Lode a San Pietro!