The fire tree,
The tree of life...

I hear yelling & I see your face turn to a grin
I know & I hate what is about to begin...

The storyteller calms the young child
Telling him to settle down...

There he lies
All warped and twisted...

The call of the mockingbird
He is the storyteller of times past...

A small, smooth hand runs along the worn granite
Upward it moves as it feels its way across a rough...

The cross is high above the village.
Everyone is talking, everyone is looking...

I have held on for so long.
It is time now to release my hate...

Head for something, not to win,
Then to simply just give in...