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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 2006-06-18 | [Acest text ar trebui citit în english] |
Here comes the executioner, his clothes are made of wind
He cuts his heads with love, he' s one of his kind He sharpens his blade humming a song in his mind Here comes the executioner, he's the best of his kind Too many songs, too many poems I've cut The life is too short for flowers to bloom The life is too ugly to trust a man whom Is the last image when the window is shut I'm the executioner, I'm your last dream Give me forgivness, your head and some steam Here comes the executioner, his clothes are made of blue Blue is the sky, blue the heaven and the axe steel too His cuts are so narrow, so nice is the cut Here comes the executioner, head falls, that is that
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