Torn fabric of the cloth and the fold
Went down in caves to the blackest sways
True is that we all have our own ways
True is that the only thing to count on is the lapse of days
True is that we always have to be the last ever
When the eye is always piling round the dead, never grave
Is this our own god?
Is this our own flesh?
Is this our own seed?
Is this flesh and blood that I've brought?
Same set of sticks in the same bloody vein
Matter stays getting drawn, conditions stay getting laid
Go in caves
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