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Now there's a gap and a spaceBetween the rusted guillotine bladeNamed for the precise manner in which it washes sins awayThey call it peaceIronic, 'cause due to the neck with boy attachedNeither seeming too peaceful to be laid upon itTo the right wing of the machine stands a hooded figureDraped in oil slicks and bloody ragsBold symbols of his tenureLeft hand upon his heartThe right upon the leverThe frightened boy looked up at him and asked him, What's the weather?He said, It's sunny, it's cloudyIt's raining somewhere else, another timeAnd time is relative, you're born and then you dieThe only thing for certain is the bladeAnd the basketAnd the gap between the two that tells the day of your passingAnd with that he read the requiem of the decree, crying,Remember all September because freedom isn't freeThe desert's dangerous when you attempt to leave your couchesThat's the price you pay for throwing rocks at tanks in glass housesBlade drops, heads rollLetras de cancionesSomewhere a storm is bornWings of butterflies have left their New Orleans in ruinsBasket takes the headCircus folk return to watch their hobbiesThe sporadic acrobatics catching bones with just their bodiesThe basket catches most everything and the ground gets what it missedThe pot, the piston's just a metaphor for the well in which you wishPerson after person, a rusty blade will get its fixBut still the basket holds the dirty laundry no one deals withIt doesn't empty, only expandsThe numbers don't decreaseFor the demand of death-related casualties on foreign landLet's free Iraq-istan and all the lands we can't pronounceRunning after evil shadows with our baskets sticking outHands over our hearts, fingers interlocked and wovenLike a little basket holding all our discarded emotionsDon't blame peace for the death toll, guns for the rising crimeThey're simply instruments, martyrs doing that which they're designedNow everyone meets the guillotineOnly a matter of timeAnd time of course is relativeAnd relativity is in your mindIf you find the answers hardAnd questions not worth askingPerhaps you need to scratch your headThat's lying in the basket.Blade drops, heads rollSomewhere a storm is bornWings of butterflies have left their New Orleans in ruinsBasket takes the headCircus folk return to watch their hobbiesThe sporadic acrobatics catching bones with just their bodies From Letras Mania