| Desert grows |
| With hopes |
| Of kissing the |
| Jungle’s coolness |
| To breathe in |
| Through wet sand |
| But dead land’s where |
| All the vectors steer |
| Now the desert’s here |
| And she’s drowning in chaos |
| Drowning in chaos |
| Drowning in chaos |
| How strong the hangman’s hands become |
| With revolution’s swarming buzz |
| And as the fortress crumbles |
| He is all that upholds what there was |
| And without the black hood and the gallows |
| To pronounce his silent name |
| He’ll be reborn, another hangman for the new regime |
| What does the washed up actress turn to |
| When her lines are cutting room debris? |
| She charms a field commander |
| Steals the secret plots of World War three |
| And batting childish eyes |
| She’s feigning drunken sloppiness while |
| Giving green-light clearance to |
| The death machines in Washington D. C |
| And where do I go now that |
| Life has come tied me to the mast? |
| The sirens' voices calling |
| «Alex, can’t you hear us? |
| Don’t sail past this starving magic |
| Don’t pretend that you don’t care» |
| But I whisper |
| «Art is less than life itself» |
| I’m really quite convincing |
| I’m really quite convincing |
| Convincing |