Carefree the songs our children once sang
Gilding our minutes and hours
The breath of the baleful unease
Turning to ashes flowers in their fields
Silenced the birds in their trees
Imprisoned in twisting spells-
Are we the plaything of fiends, or merely the dreams
That we're telling ourselves, telling ourselves?
The squadrons of night
All of these ghosts of our own delusions come back
Though the thunder's rage is quieted at last
The night has left us crippled with grief
Imprisoned in twisting spells-
Are we the plaything of fiends, or merely the dreams
That we're telling ourselves, telling ourselves?
All of these ghosts of our own delusions come back
Have we been fighting in vain? Fighting in vain?

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