Guest
The colors of his morning, the darkness of his night Little graves that gave no warning, a sun that brought no light He saw his whole world breaking, that tortured soul I met In a prison of his making, the man who can’t forget I can still hear the way that he cried for the ones he was missing I can still hear the way that he cried for the ones he had lost He saw them in the rivers, he felt them in the rain, in dreams he heard them whisper the truth that is his pain He caused the whole world’s breaking, that tortured soul I met In a prison of his making, the man who can’t forget
