The murmur grows - until they rage
|
It is not a scenery
|
At this market-place in middle-ages
|
Somebody - in the crowd -
|
Speaks a prayer
|
Hundred burning torches rise
|
In their light appears the silhouette
|
Of a mighty FUNeral pile
|
|
Headling with some unknown herbs
|
- Rising suspicion -
|
"Death" - they say -
|
"is what she deserves!"
|
- An innocent victim -
|
"Instruments of torture
|
will tell us the truth!"
|
And it feels like
|
Oooohhh...
|
|
"I'm representing the church
|
Somebody said, in you might lurk
|
Things - still not seen by human eyes
|
Is is dark magic, you are practicing?"
|
|
After there are no tears left
|
And they thought, they'd feaced the fact
|
"Nothing is as it should be
|
You're accused of witchery!"
|
|
"If there is a creator
|
If there is a god...
|
You will pay for all the dead
|
There's punishment above!
|
And somebody outside
|
this chamber of horror
|
|
Knows my fear, knows my sorrow
|
YOU preach, how could I learn?
|
'cause in this faith is
|
CHARITY ABSURD!"
|
|
After this words wer spoken
|
The cowd wants to see her die
|
The way to the confessor
|
Will it be the last one in her life?
|
|
The murmur grows - until they rage
|
And somebody speaks a prayer
|
A prayer...
|
|
-----------------
|
Charity Absurd
|
Haggard |