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Twenty years of affection and still that lethal taste on our tongues

Funeral poetry to tear our blackened skies

Razorblade sharpeners

As we are still trying to get accustomed

To all the horror around us

We are poets and nobodies

Outcasts and troublemakers

Sure we don't expect anything good to happen anytime soon

Twenty years of affection and still that lethal taste on our tongues

We are soloists and we are the voice

Of the orphans (and) the wanderers

Surely we don't expect anything good to happen anytime soon

Filled with dread

When no one is listening

The time is coming in

There is no place to hide, we are dying

We learned to dance when we got sad

To howl when we got discouraged

Our shouts are worth a thousand words

They best reflect the violence and the shame

We will maintain the fire within us

Until the end of this sinister world

Twenty years of dedication

And we will maintain the fire within us