Living a life of a dead sort
Knowing if fate asks, I've no retort
'Cause these secrets I'll never tell
I'll take 'em with me, even if that means taking 'em to hell

Dieing a death a lively sort
Only planning for tomorrow as a last resort
'Cause these lies are the kind that should never see sunrise
The light of day

The light of day
Does not belong in my cave
Amongst the snakes and suggestive cave-paintings, to which I've become a slave
The light of day cannot save
Me from dieing in the dark
Even if the stones I pitch in anger-like apathy, against others spark
The fire that comes forth will too be dark
The fire that comes forth will be too dark

And still there can be no Sun
But will be snow
Of colors white, brown, green, yellow
That blend into a deceptive sort of gold
There will be snow
And rain to melt it away
A strangely beautiful scene
Fitting of my final day