When the mind won't lie
When the bone won't [?]
When the blinding light isn't off you yet
When the words won't come
When the hands won't touch
When the blinding sun doesn't look like much
And tied to the wrath to reside to your fate
And I know you've cracked
Like the china plate
[?] insist
That the [?] seems so
[?] as Cicero
[?]
[?]
Wasn't this the plan?