Stalins War Red Tears And Calloused Hands
As I look down at these hands, calloused and stained, I
am forced to ask myself, could this all be in vain?
Awaken to darkness, I step out the door,
but when I return home, still no light hits the floor.
Where have these days gone
under will of these hands?
And where has the time gone
that this dream still demands.
Now I look down at these hands, without promise or shame.
And I caress every vision now, because in daylight they
fade.
Awaken to darkness, I step out the door,
but when I return home, still no light hits the floor.
Where have these days gone
under will of these hands?
And where has the time gone
that this dream still demands.
Symptoms of incurable disease,
these tears are red,
but I can't see.
To end these hands shall never will to chose
to shatter every hope
I was never born to loose.
I was born to die trying.
