Nothing remains of the days after the sun died,
when gods and angels made the seas,
gathered the grey and withered leaves and wiped away the tears,
and they touched our quiet minds, and guided us to blissful golden skies,
old and obsolete, we vanished into stars and into light,
blame it on the rain, blame it on our fathers’ strange behaviour,
their love, will find a way, some day,
the bird will beat its wings, beat its wings, a thousand times,
until the mysteries of life can be revealed,
the elders gather round and whistle and proclaim,
there’s been some terrible mistake, its not too late, its not too late
Nothing remains of the time before the sunrise,
when gods and angels came to be,
and giants contemplated darkness beneath the glowing trees,
blind to what would come to be, a deep and darkly veiled metamorphosis,
Praying to the wind, they sank into the waters of the sea,
Shake the ancient tree, grab the silver leaves and rip the roots away,
its time to start again, again, again,
the bird will beat its wings, beat its wings, a thousand times,
until the mysteries of life can be revealed,
the elders gather round and whistle and proclaim,
there’s been some terrible mistake, its not too late, its not too late
And who could ever understand the meaning of it all,
good and evil, vice and virtue, love and fear, we live and die and live
a never-ending dream, and nothing is ever what it seems,
we dream, within a dream,