Cold, pale, grey
Standing still against the change of seasons
Without a coffin, the corpse of yesterday
Ground zero

Catacomb of perished memories
Empty slot in this necropolis
Ground zero

Not a soul, not even troglodytes
There's not a soul

Washed away with the rain
All the stains that were made from blood
And the canvas is white

No traces of blood

Washed away with the rain
All the stains that were made from blood
And the canvas is white
From an artist lobotomized

Cold, as a winter's day
Pale, as a ghost in chains
Grey, as the ashes that drift with a nuclear wind

Cold, pale, grey

Cold, as a winter's day
Pale, as a ghost in chains
Grey, as the ashes that drift with a nuclear wind