كلمات Withering Branches

oh, what a wide world to conquer, it rests in the palm of our hands. the lines blur between corruption and where we sit upon our thrones and we draw blood as if it's our right to, but is it our right to? we've been swaying for centuries and we've dug in our roots as we drink up the sea of divinity. but we can't seem to shed our afflictions what pitiful deities we make if we can't reach beyond ourselves such lowly gods we create when we only believe in what our hands can touch and our eyes can see. we are withering branches, we are sick and dying vines. oh, what a wide world to conquer, it falls apart in our hands