Well, the Phantom Jets are coming
The land has turned to ash
Creatures whisper
Silver, all that's left
Sister crowned Anita
The smoke it burns my eyes
When wine spills dry
from blood on high
And then they too
and you began to cry.
Colder stones of warmer winters
In 1968
When shackles were
my burning fate
And then I too . . .
began to cry.
The land has turned to ash
Creatures whisper
Silver, all that's left
Sister crowned Anita
The smoke it burns my eyes
When wine spills dry
from blood on high
And then they too
and you began to cry.
Colder stones of warmer winters
In 1968
When shackles were
my burning fate
And then I too . . .
began to cry.
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