Tekster: Horizon 8. These grey ornaments of your apocalypse.

Poisonous dust
Draws on wet glass
Grey ornaments
They are transforming to
A dreadful picture
of an apocalypse

Of your apocalypse

And I see
Terrible grimaces of lords
of destruction
Agony of creatures
Burning in the crimson flame
That is the future

I do not want my own dreams
To become the reality
Cause all this simply seems to me

I can’t predict what waits for us tomorrow
But I want you to understand
I can’t predict what waits for us tomorrow
I can’t be silent when I see another’s pain

Everything passed
And the picture of reality is destroyed
And I see
Lifeless desert
and the black line of horizon

One more step
One more sigh
One more chance
to try to rethink all