Paroles de Growing Cold

The air grows cold On the world, so old. The taste of mould On the wind, so cold. The gods of old Are still and cold, Their faces grim And covered in mould. The winter, so cold, Whispers secrets untold. The gods, so bold, Have froze in the cold. A memory of old Ferments like mould. And all of the world Grows cold, so cold... The wind, so old, Carries death, so cold, Spreads disease And feeds the mould. An echo once told A prophecy so bold That all of the air Became suddenly cold...