Heroes of Silence
Miscellaneous
In the Arms of Fever
With the arms of fever
that still encompass my forehead
I have thought better of it
and I will loose the snakes of vanity a rehearsal of death
In the skin of a drop
my wings returned broken
and among other things
they no longer write with ink of light
Paradise becomes hell and
then he complains
and without anyone moving
who fixes it?
Paradise becomes hell and
then it complains
and without anyone moving
who fixes it?
Generated in my rubble
of a pasty palate
the nonsense of chaos
defeated me
with words of praise
In the skin of a drop
my wings came back broken
and among other things
they no longer write with ink of light
Paradise becomes hell and
then it complains
and without anyone noticing move
Who fixes it?

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