اصل بول
ENترجمہ ابھی دستیاب نہیں۔ اصل بول دکھائے جا رہے ہیں۔
Withered weed in a base
Old wooden table
Remembers
The days of fame
Cold is the way
Paying with pain
Like thousands
Of useless coins
That rings in my pocket
Morning rises
And i dream to have ability
To keep my eyes closed
Just when sun stops
Hating all my dark dreams
Withered weeds in a base
I remember those days
When the smell of fresh flowers
Was you hair
Those moments
All to give back
With tears and destruction
Of a flesh
I smell the evening
Feeling cutting through me
As the red light on
The horizon...
