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Curse Of The Mortal

Music : Conscience
Texts : Nicolas Moulard

It is the way it flows,
The way it goes,
That leaves me numb.

So I try to cheat a little,
Turn myself into a winter lake
To see if time will stop breathing too,
And share the stillness of immobility,
With me.

Instead it carves lines in my youth
A little deeper everyday.
For time is a sculptor
That undertakes lifelong projects
To perfect the face of death,
Always successfully.

Despair droops down melting figures,
Salty fountains who canít help but cling,
Like my heart clings to the pictures
Of a past of which I know will remain nothing,
In time.