And what is left of me, as I see the whole world burnt down to death, And what’s left for me, as I hear nothing but the sounds of the silence. What has been already built to be seen or…
And the night shall fall short to spell, Another rain on the parched blood soaked in airy blue. To let hopes sulk in deep on concrete black road, Waiting to roll over with words invited to crack skulls open. …
Once upon a time, in a quaint village, a shepherd named Kabira yearned for a better life on the other side of the bridge, along with his small flock of sheep. Unfortunately, his income from their wool had dwindled, leaving…
And what is left of me, as I see the whole world burnt down to death, And what’s left for me, as I hear nothing but the sounds of the silence. What has been already built to be seen or…