There is no help in philosophy
No help in changing out the yesterday's truth,
Utopias we yearned to touch are dying now

And all the gods have humanly tresspassed.

Gods built the world from most prosaic sins

and you are the lowest progeny of their copulation...
In our constant fall we cut our wrists
In shards of our painfully flooding essence.

Dramas of our outside beauty are leaving us indifferent,
Soon we'll become gargoyles that treasures walls.


Contamined - you will have yoour socle
Unfeeling - unable to be hurt
You know - the statue is in you

Expectant - a gargoyle grows in you.