That hallway, dark and silent. Like the grave it is my tomb and no resting place.

It has become my church, wooden floors, sacred asylum.
If I crawl down the stairs and find the ornament snake.

Lay a stone upon its shining head and wipe the running blood from my neck.
To be free finally, safe and sound, disbelieve all I see, my own eyes.

The walls are written white with chalk.
The dust in the air will choke if I walk through the mausoleum.

Lay a stone upon its shining head and wipe the running blood from my neck.
To be free finally, safe and sound, disbelieve all I see, my own eyes.

If I crawl down the stairs, close my eyes, find the ornament snake bound in lies.
Nail the tail to the door. Home at last...