Believers Of The Unpure

Kiss the past

Waiting for the eyes

brimstone jewelery surrounds your face

Fire burns my soul

White medieval women

make an exhibition of flesh under

black parasols

And all the leather, furs, flowers and lust

this is where we belong

Kiss the past

The minstrels perform

here children have Freedom of desire

rose masquerade

The old mans glass Face

eyes move still alive, tears cascade

his last parade

And all the leather, furs, flowers and lust

this is where we belong

Kiss the past

Unworthy captives with palms sweat wet

Believers of the unpure

Kiss the past

This is where we belong