Sick

When the city breathes you hold your breath.

The fog will penetrate your lungs

And eat away until there's nothing left.

From a garden wall a song is sung.

It hovers over lonely souls

And wrestles with the pylons' leaden hum.

At the traffic lights the notion grows

That nothing can hold back the death

And everything we knew was predisposed.

As she takes her pulse her senses numb.

The mask and gloves melt into one

And fuse into a new protective flesh. 

With the sirens on they feel at rest.

There's just a hundred metres left

But this is not the way their story goes.

Why the city stopped we still don't know.

They say it tired of everything

And simply couldn't face another day.