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 werde sown.
  And watered by the deeds of those
  Who know and who are known;
  When no one sets the rules.
  The fate of all mankind I see
  Is in the hands of fools.
  
  Confusion will be my epitaph.
  As I crawl a cracked and broken path
  If we make it we can all sit back and laugh.
  But I fear tomorrow I'll be crying.
  Yes I fear tomorrow I'll be crying.