By Bad Seed
"The wall on which the prophets wrote Is cracking at the seams. Upon the instruments of death The sunlight brightly gleams. When every man is torn apart With nightmares and with dreams, Will no one lay the laurel wreath As silence drowns the screams. Between the iron gates of fate, The seeds of time are sown, And watered by the deeds of those Who know and who are known; Knowledge is a deadly friend When no one sets the rules. The fate of all mankind I see Is in the hands of fools. Confusion ...