He writes on an empty board.
A sick story with my hairy hand.
You feel the heat of a small body, it excites you
you don't hear how a small heart breaks into pieces.
Of flowers and bees there's no need to explain
it's really true, it doesn't need interpretation,
and the night doesn't save from a nightmare, the night doesn't comfort
it doesn't hide from the father.< br/>The muffled footsteps lead upstairs
and the walls of the Children's room darken to a menacing effect.
There is no point in talking about flowers and bees
this is really true, this no interpretation is needed.
the eastern world sighs deeply and closes its eyes in shame
in pain the house is covered in shadow and darkness.
ö the world sighs deeply and closes its eyes in shame
painfully the house is covered in shadow and darkness.
Breakfast is waiting downstairs.
A look into the dull eyes, it's starting to make me sick.
Little fingers are picking at the braid,
it feels so dirty when a big hand is stroking the head.
Flowers and bees there is no need to explain about fathers.
This is really true, it does not need interpretation.
The eastern world sighs deeply and closes its eyes in shame ¤n
the house of pain is covered in shadow in darkness.
the eastern world sighs deeply and closes its eyes in shame
the house of pain is covered in shadow to the dark, to the dark, to the dark

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