The wind is not blowing
in the absence of light,
eyes above,
motionless, engrossed.
In this vertical horizon,
recurring edge of impossible dreams,
we speak in silent gestures.
Isn't it dangerous?
(Isn't it?)
We covered this place in nothing
but fear,
abandoned everything
and turned to you.
Paranoia star,
ugly star,
a convoluted void
in this wounded sky.
Hands and trembling faces
will never reach the truth,
the only glimpse they have
is a silent monolith.
In this vertical horizon,
recurring edge of impossible dreams,
we stay quiet and meaningless.
Isn't it dangerous?
(Isn't it?)
We filled this place
with all that we reject,
eclipsed by our darkness,
we turned to you.
Paranoia star,
empty star.
To a dreadful night,
this ominous dawn.
"Isn’t this dangerous?
Talk to me!
Our transmission begins now.
I feel hot.
I can see a flame.
Am I going to crash?
Yes.
I feel hot,
I will re-enter…"
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