Текст песни
The third rider on a black horse.
He flies over the scorched earth.
Every hand is an empty palm.
The death sentence has been passed.
There are no more tears in the city.
The price of bread is rising.
Like vultures circling,
Above our fears.
Children's faces behind the shadows, like behind a fence.
A mother prepares a ghostly stew.
Coins like pebbles in the fingers of a beggar.
There's nothing left to exchange for food.
Church bells ring on a deserted Sunday.
There's not a crumb left on the altars.
We speak in fragments, rather than sentences.
Our tongues are too dry to say who we've become.
Is it a curse, or just a plan?
Fields scorched by endless, devourers.
He does not turn, and does not tire.
Hooves knock slowly, like a funeral choir.
In his hands is a school, and the grain is less and less.
Each grain, is a measure of sin.
And suddenly the sun rises and hope appears
But no one knows, how long it will last.
