|
The murmur grows - until they rage |
|
It is not a scenery |
|
At this market-place in middle-ages |
|
Somebody - in the crowd - |
|
Speaks a prayer |
|
Hundred burning torches rise |
|
In their light appears the silhouette |
|
Of a mighty FUNeral pile |
|
Headling with some unknown herbs |
|
- Rising suspicion - |
|
"Death" - they say - |
|
"is what she deserves!" |
|
- An innocent victim - |
|
"Instruments of torture |
|
will tell us the truth!" |
|
And it feels like |
|
Oooohhh... |
|
"I'm representing the church |
|
Somebody said, in you might lurk |
|
Things - still not seen by human eyes |
|
Is is dark magic, you are practicing?" |
|
After there are no tears left |
|
And they thought, they'd feaced the fact |
|
"Nothing is as it should be |
|
You're accused of witchery!" |
|
"If there is a creator |
|
If there is a god... |
|
You will pay for all the dead |
|
There's punishment above! |
|
And somebody outside |
|
this chamber of horror |
|
Knows my fear, knows my sorrow |
|
YOU preach, how could I learn? |
|
'cause in this faith is |
|
CHARITY ABSURD!" |
|
After this words wer spoken |
|
The cowd wants to see her die |
|
The way to the confessor |
|
Will it be the last one in her life? |
|
The murmur grows - until they rage |
|
And somebody speaks a prayer |
|
A prayer... |
