| There's a question in the darkness | |
| There's a hundred open doors | |
| There's a whisper on the stairways | |
| In every second floor | |
| You know all room is infinate | |
| You know you cannot fly | |
| We try to fill the void with indifference | |
| And watch with orphan eyes | |
| For him who is | |
| For him we cannot find | |
| For him who knows | |
| We fill the room with obscure relatives in every second floor | |
| Your seventh son | |
| Your seventh sister's lover's gonna come | |
| It's seven stairways to the room where we belong | |
| There's a question in the darkness | |
| There's a hundred open doors | |
| Our steps injure the dust | |
| And we forget what we came here for | |
| There's a whisper in the darkness | |
| There are hundred traps | |
| Gleaming eyes on the corridor watching every single step | |
| Your seventh son | |
| Your seventh sister's lover's gonna come | |
| It's seven stairways to the room where we belong | |
| We fill the rooms with fake calmness | |
| Our eyes persuaded to be blind | |
| You know all room is infinate | |
| You know we cannot fly |
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