Nomads

With the barricades we lift upon ourselfs
Each of us has their name on the tartarus bell

The nomades will sing a song
To call us back
To offer rest

We became their sons and daughters
With dried out lungs, in our chests
No grasp for air, breathless

He craved for blooming soil
A shining crest on his head
A rich man, poor among the dead

She leans back, opens her leggs
Her cursed breed is falling of the mirror edge

We became their sons and daughters
With dried out lungs
No grasp for air, breathless worthless