| A man in his bed |
| So unwelcomed in his own skin |
| Waiting for the day he’d die |
| A figure without a face walked through the door |
| He said, «Visitor, is it safe to assume |
| That I’m as nameless as you are?» |
| Death took his cold grey hands |
| And made a home on the buttons on his shirt |
| Death had marked my chest and I greeted him |
| I fixed him a bed and sang him to sleep |
| If he promised to take me away |
| He opened his eyes and said in harmony |
| «Do as I say, and you’ll rid of your hurt.» |
| But, I’m forced to ask |
| For my family and friends |
| If I take it myself, am I murderer? |
| Bllow my name one last time |
| A man in his bd |
| So unwelcomed in his own skin |
| Waiting for the day he’d die |
| But death said «no.» |
| He told him that his grip |
| Wasn’t meant for him yet |
| He filled his head with ways to keep him out |
| Death had marked my chest and I greeted him |
| I fixed him a bed and sang him to sleep |
| If he promised to take me away |
| He opened his eyes and said in harmony |
| «Do as I say, and you’ll rid of your hurt.» |
| But, I’m forced to ask |
| For my family and friends |
| If I take it myself, am I murderer? |
| Not today, I won’t be a murderer |