Copellia's Coffin,
The flowing tears are already withering, Blood from starving loneliness, Points to the smell of the harmonious hair, Of the burning angel's dance. There sits a black sun, In the town that does not sink, Everyone says nothing,
The magic comes and works. From the metal wall, Enclosed in a room, I'm there until morning, Like death, you sleep. You are not visible, This eye is not visible, That makes us into the cartridge of God. Copellia's Coffin, The person danced like a doll and became tired, Sacrificial sheep, Setting up the machine's dream,
Where does it face? Soldiers destroy, The door of the neighbour, Who predicts, The end of the world.
Many thousands of fingers, Like wings , Snapping, but folding, And just pray as they climb. Cannot meet you, Can't meet here, God rescues us and obtains the cartridge. Copellia's coffin, The flowing tears are already withering, Blood from starving loneliness, Points to the smell of the harmonious hair, Of the burning angel's dance. Even when we would like to touch, Would like to grasp this hand, Love is our only protection. Copellia's heartbeat, It must know the pain of living, The thrown off shoes, Start stepping, training, one more time, Perplexingly, they begin to walk. Copellia's coffin,The light which awakes from the darkness, Sacrifical Sheep, As the screw breaks off the dream,
Where does it face? |
