I can hear the whistle of the oaks
They try to keep it, but with no succeed
Their leaves won't stop their fall,
In forever autumn and rain we crawl

Thousands of futile souls wait with joy,
For this blind messiah, fake savior of troy
His shining, yet mysterious eyes know,
His secret is concealed far below

The fading shadows of those dead trees
They see our suffering but they decide to freeze
Their roots are solid no more,
Our secret is closer than ever before