The magic in our words
sells us to our stories tonight,
As the sharpest swords
share destinies untold by the dripping blood,
hanging by the edge of the dark blades
deceiving timeless snakes
Wild and heading straight to be born again
as beings of the night,
As restless shadows of pain
and unborns innocent and mild,
As our curses on eternal despair
are hiding their twisted faces
onto the demonly lair of forbidden truths
Where the youths in our heads
join hands together singing songs of life,
(dead men songs shot by rifles
verticaly thrown onto the wall
selling their soul to the very bullet
passing their torred apart heart),
ah,tonight...
the magic in our touch
the wicca in our embrace
gives to our cells,bones and flesh the taste
of omnipotence written in our blood
as we become the only god knowing
that time is on our side
coliding with the truth dripping drop by drop
out of our imposible bodies...