Playtime is now at the hour,
The second of the artistically planned discontent
How curious of this time to be
Given the immaculate disadvantage.
Staying complete, yet chiming out of tune
Carrying the slaves that built the ruins
Confusion part these babbling lips now
The voices shut by the ages somehow
The eyes allowing the tears to fall
The heart surrendering to the mothers call
A soul weeps
It knows of the wrongs it keeps
Will forgiveness ever be,
On this swing to and fro?
Is this monotonous flying liberty,
How should my mere mortal mind know?

Though playtime is now
But only for the souls of this hour,
For any promises kept
Any blood shed
Any difference to this
Will the slaved soul rest its head?

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