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Men with both roots and wingsthey tie us down and ask us to leavethey are teachings unheard, they are bodies on smoke
Men with both roots and wingsat a singular voice we moanour teachings mislead, our teachings like smokewe sleep between the storm that wasand the storm which has to come
We've learnt to learn everywhereand the very own nature has taught us to waitdifference does sound like sin, equality reliefsand that fame rhymes with hate yet everything is fairon the intervals of your deathmisguided demons or forthcoming heroeseach one with an important namenothing else than an important name.
Men with both roots and wingsat a certain time we are oneour little tricks, our innocence stubborn
Men with just little wings, men with just little minds
Men with just little eyes, men with just little deedssleeping between the storm that wasand the wind which fails to come (and finally)blow us away.
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