One morning you wake up
And the ache is gone
Watercolour weather dripping off your umbrella
As if your life has just begun
Hard, dissatisfied, just like a child
It’s not a question of pride
Your prophet margin comes after time
One evening you go to bed
Intoxicated, unaware
The symptoms that you painted, they respirate the pain
While danger is stroking your head
You see what is to be, what’s been decreed
It’s not a question of scared
The prophet margin is never shared
You’ve got a beautiful future
Talk stranger and a house in the park
You shed no more tears for a couple of years
And then it gets kinda dark
You probably will have gifted children
There will be rumours of war
Then one afternoon as you lie in your room
Ah, then we won’t see you no more
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