The end.
Destruction burns.
Fear pumps through the famous.
Desolation is in the air.
This is our station.
The weak, the corrupt. It dies.
Before our eyes it dies.
As far as the eye can see: only destruction.
Is it hopeless?
What can be done?
Is it too late?
Are we too late to save ourselves?
We're living in, in a dead world.
Crying out for a change.
What can be done?
Each day, we slip further away.
On the edge of ruin.
It won't be long before we succumb.
Is it hopeless?
What can be done?
Is it too late?
Are we too late to save ourselves?
We're living in, in a dead world.
It's so cold, and with no joy, we must save Ourselves.
Now this is a fight, because there is little left to hold on to.
And to beg forgiveness, for when in blackness, now I can see.
It's not too late, oh, not too late to save ourselves.
It's not too late, oh, not too late to save ourselves.

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