No response to the order
Nothing can make you answer them
No Acceptance of the paper
No Signature or mark
Stood motionless
Arms crossed with bowed heads
Not the aim of Death’s Rifles
Will ever make them work
The world is a step outside
A grey sunless prison
You could drop where you stand
No one made it out of here alive
To the mines or the marshland
Where the wild cherry grows
Not the aim of Death’s Rifles
Could ever make us work
It’s all in your mind
All in your mind
Not the freezing of the skin
Or the cut of the razor
Not the line of shallow graves
Waiting in the cold
Beneath a halo of hissing insects
And all the summer knows
Not the aim of Death’s rifles
Could ever make us work
The world is a step outside
A grey sunless prison
You could drop where you stand
No one made it out of here alive
Words by Mark from Last Under The Sun
