All the weight of the world placed upon a open palm
And buried for centuries
Now the light opens up in our eyes but we still deny
The true shape of anything

Heads will roll from our guillotines, down resolutions
And into our streets
And the stench will rise from Los Angeles
So opportunist, has it come to this?

(Slow down)

Set fire to the pages
When we've lost the light, the light
Our bodies in the river
When we've lost the light, the light

All the bombs, all the bombs we don't hear this far away
Still open our enemies
So haste the day when the flag waves above a turning wheel
With blood flowing through the hub

And our hands will lift when the curtains rise
In absolution, to black out the skies
And then stench will fall from Los Angeles
So opportunist, has it come to this?

Has it come to this?

(Slow down)

Set fire to the pages
When we've lost the light, the light
Our bodies in the river
When we've lost the light, the light