The look in your eyes, it taints your sweet smile,
And the blood that I've shed doesn't make death worthwhile,
You tell me that you've walked through hell and made it out alive.
So tell me again what lies on the other side?
In your eyes, you've witnessed the dawning of time,
The brutal love of a father you claim too is mine.
But in the same eyes all I see,
Is a fiery inferno fueled by the screams of people like me.
Speak to me without your tongue,
Who should I be running from?
The painter with a heavy heart and broken mind,
Or the knight whose seeds of rebellion grow from inside?
Burden me with the taste of your tears,
Cry me a fountain of fear.
So that I may finally understand,
Who it is that strikes you with his hand?
The painter with his sorrow or the knight with his blade,
Only one, I fear, will come to your aid.
I beg you, glare at me once more,
And let your hate shout the name of he you are fighting for.
A knight who massacres children with a disease of the most backhanded if sorts,
Or a painter whose soul belongs to all with the capacity for one small word.
