The color of a match is old in stoneIt's the marker of an unreadable worldIt is the color of a man stuck in his graveAnd the mood of his mood that he has painted onHis face is painted on with pools of clayAnd the blood of an animal run astrayHe is the color of a man who plays in the sportAnd the wisdom of his words are simply taken onAll of thevariants of possesionAll of the بهINGEMHe covers me with ash and falls asleepAnd whispering the words that he feltHas grown to loveWords can have a wayTo pull the stringGrunting out the yes and the yesAnd then the ohIt's simpler when I think aboutBeing no moreThan one of theseMany trophiesTo live like a manWho craves the coldTo be the one that hasTo ask for everythingStone men stand as ifThey own the placeThe power that they lackIt has been painted onWorshipping them is the only wayCreating life from ashThat brings the every poreTo the surface of the earthIt's colouring the manWith what he's knownThe colour isn't thereJust like the nananooNananooNananooI feel the weakness out his wayShe walks, she wavesIn the rhythm of his hipsAs he pretends to knowAnd the heaviest set of stepsThat storm awaySuch that it's the colour ofA man's lifeBut if I tell himTo stopThen I willTo return to DunhamIf I find himAnd I believeLost in the worldThinking he willIf I find him