How many prayers have been pattered out in vain,

How many deeds have provoked a renaissance of futile smiles,

And how many times have we been privileged spectators?



We'd rather be removed from this conspiracy

We's rather close our eyes to the insanity



Lifting our hopes to withered plains.

Dragging our thirst through desert storms

Interlocked through limitless empires of camera eyes,

Observing distress with stoic composure



Is this the act of resignation?



Admist the ruins the actors parade,

Reciting phrases of 'Godot' and 'Lear'

Yet something's different, the play seems so real

How come we notice familiar eyes behind the masks?



Still we smile 

While hope and death carry on their dialogue

Still we dance

The sarabande of nihilism



Admist the ruins the jesters parade

Reciting phrases of 'Godot' and 'Lear'

Yet something's different, the play seems so real

Cunnung tears hide a Torquemada smile



We congregate and sit hand in hand

around the table of anachronism

And we form the allianve with gestures of habit,

Carrying on the same old way...