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Chapter 1.11 - Candide ou l'optimisme

de Voltaire

Raise aching hands to weary skies
tired bones on suffered ground.
All of this I wish that I
didn't let wear me down
down, down, down, down, down.
Down.

Rest tortured bones in walls of pine.
A resting place for all of time.
But I don't want to leave behind
the sweetly fragrant mist of life
life, life, life, life, life.
Life.

Quiet spilling pale moon light
casts a cross upon your smile
as sleeping in my arms you lie
peaceful in your dreams tonight,
night, night, night, night, night.
Night.

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