A torn artwork made of threads and grief,
Is lying down by God's side.
Naked, dirty, body of steel,
And ice cold,
Next to the window of feeling,
Feeling cold, heartless, depressed,
Like the days of the plague,
Are mourning the people,
With a half-covered waist,
And the dietitians of god,
With the holy sign on their wrist.
A torn artwork lies made of lies ad beads,
The beads make thoughts,
And thoughts make love.
the people waiting get to thinking,
Will we face the same fate some day?
Even if we make just a single mistake every day?
Or is this the work of god,
Watching us suffer here,
With a heart that's gruesome and cold.
That breaks every time a journey sends,
Is gravity his best friend?