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Versurile The Church - Destination
Versuri Destination
Our instruments have no way of measuring this
feeling
Can never cut below the floor, or penetrate the
ceiling.
In the space between our houses, some bones have
been discovered,
But our procession lurches on, as if we had
recovered.
Draconian winter unforetold.
One solar day, suddenly you're old.
Your little envelope just makes me cold,
Makes destination start to unfold.
Our documents are useless, or forged beyond
believing.
Page forty-seven is unsigned, I need it by this
evening.
In the space between our cities, a storm is
slowly forming.
Something eating up our days, I feel it every
morning.
Destination, destination.
It's not a religion, it's just a technique.
It's just a way of making you speak.
Distance and speed have left us too weak,
And destination looks kind of bleak.
Our elements are burned out, our beasts have been
mistreated.
I tell you it's the only way we'll get this road
completed.
In the space between our bodies, the air has
grown small fingers.
Just one caress, you're powerless, like all those
clapped-out swingers.
Destination, destination.
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