The bells ring out
above my room,
an announcement of our loss.
And in the act, three men decide an indefinite
death belong.
My letters have all gone,
a journey that's unsure.
A message that was
rich,
a hand that was poor.
Oh, have me breathe and let me go.
Cause I don't want to know.
Cause I don't want to know.
Oh, I don't want to.
Want to.
I'm not going to.
Along with images
from words that were saved and not erased.
The shelves
arranged above my head.
Blankets hold the smell of a life.
And so the many years.
Oh, have me breathe and let me go.
Cause I don't want you to know.
Cause I don't want you to know.
Oh, I don't want to.
Want to.
I want to.
Oh, missionary,
are you here?
Oh, missionary,
are you here?
And when the water comes,
the water doesn't come like the English rain.
They bury their heads for self-defense
of Markton Truman's rude diligence.
We are alone against our sins.
Alone against our sins.
Alone against our sins.
And rooms that are full of men that sit on stools awaiting time.
Decision leads to little sense.
They bury their heads for self-defense.
We are alone
against our sins.
Alone
against our sins.