Nine Eleven все тексты (слова) песен, переводы, видео, клипы

We may only have time to
Count the square yards offered to us and those we'll never thread upon
Dream of spaces our brain can no longer imagine
Talk about happiness in the past tense,
With colors that we no longer can see
Count the one not left anymore to live.
Born as king?! Yeah, the palace where our throne is set is a bog!
So that we can only shit our rage in a dream and live anarchy through poems,

From haven we got hell
and heard the swell
Flipping a coin, with the last prophets,
Gods, devils and deads, the lost soul’s fate..
When you’re blessed by them,
this is what you get

And so, here everyone goes

This is a time for the dead to run behind their souls
And to hope to belong to the black sheep list
Instinct has pushed them away from their crystal grave
And now, they're invading the city screaming :

" On riot, friends, we're the states killers"

So I wish, and I swear

Live from the arena, thirty people listening,
It’s the open season to go hunting crown of thorn and pine needles.
Shining under local headquarters neons,
The emblems of a city of belts boarding the battlefields of ambitions
Come to grip with each other.
The world stops turning, taking its time beholding the “artist”
Putting on air and the principles of transfer of myth of long ago.
The nauseous broken record praising the glory of yesterday

ROSE SCHNEIDERMAN

“Too much blood has been spilled. I know so much it’s up to the workers to save themselves. (And) the only way they can save themselves is by a strong working-class sedition

I’d betray these poor burned bodies if I came here to talk with friendly words.
The old Inquisition had its rack and its thumbscrews and its instruments of torture with iron teeth.

Every week I must learn of the untimely death of one of my sister workers.

It's all about savoir-faire: first you learn to read,
Then you learn to count, then you understand what's expected of you.
You must also learn to make yourself more beautiful than others,
To be the clone, to be the polystyrene clone of dead-eyed models.
You must also learn to wait for your turn,
The turn of the screwed that's given to you - not that you want to.
In the end you'll learn to enjoy the lame post mortem comfort of a life past.
By the way, you've learned to stroke those odd dreams stolen from mirrors