歌词
Script-etched leaves
Weak, slowly losing grip,
Speak to me
With a chilling wind
Their pigment, a dull gray scale,
Projected into my ailing mind
A meek moment of time
Indulged by a forgotten growth
Of which eternity has claimed
Silence gently scraping at my body
I can recognize
Where the grid of time
Meets my broken world
But I choose to stay
Slowly turning my head
Towards the dead horizon
I witness time itself,
Face to face
As it breaks away from my world
TIME!