Watcher کے بول

The stubble on my face engraves my lack of compassion I'm counting the grass blades to pass the time Queen-sized comfort awaits my tired eyes Remember me? I'm your satire's locksmith You referred to the way of the sword as hope Despite the blade in your back Two days pass and there is still no sign of the sun But your wait calmly playing checkers with your gut instinct On the contrary to the heart's self-imprisonment Your horse shoes fall like hail I hear your name in the wind my collapsible heart skips a beat You remain in my head only as a bitter-sweet memory I've given up sleep So I can pray for you Day by day, I bite my tongue The mental song is sung out loud It shakes the ground beneath you