Our hands try to draw what is nothing but divine
But our stroke is a part of the Venetian line
What was taken for style could well be a mistake
Or nothing but a flaw of the guilty hand
I'm nothing but a dead man now,
just a body laying at the bottom of a well
Was inside in such a way,
the universe now feels like being indoors
Our hands try to draw what is nothing but divine
But our stroke is a part of the Venetian line
What was taken for style could well be a mistake
Or nothing but a flaw of the guilty hand
I'm nothing but a dead man now,
just a body laying at the bottom of a well
Believe me please, believe me now, I'm coming forth
But the fist of a murderer leaves nothing to chance
I was inside in such a way,
the universe now feels like being indoors
But the fist of my murderer leaves me nothing to chance
I'm nothing but a dead man now,
just a body laying at the bottom of a well
Believe me please, believe me now, I'm coming forth
But the fist of a murderer leaves nothing to chance
Our hands try to draw what is nothing but divine
But our stroke is a part of the Venetian line
What was taken for style could well be a mistake
Or nothing but a flaw of the guilty hand
