Eugen Galateanu

Here comes the executioner, his clothes are made of wind He cuts his heads with love, he\' s one of his kind He sharpens his blade humming a song in his mind Here comes the executioner, he\'s the

The cold soup is dreaming of tomorrow Tears of sorrow Are crawling on the coup The bad soup is dreaming of tomorrow Today an ugly bull Had eaten it, partly, with his ugly moustache Is there

Ugly as the chipmonk The liar Is taking his place out of the evening newspaper In order to spare His pathetic life In order to lie His sad ,stupid song Ugly as myself in the mirror Bad as my

For there is no good time than yesterday The old were young, merely start to play The love was young and tempted me to stay For there was no such time as yesterday For there is no sad time such

Far away Above the open sea There floats my love On a bed of tears Far away Born to serve To serve and to die To be burried and thrown away

Like a thousand of broken glasses My love is calling you Like a moon over the mystic shadow Like a lingering pain on a very dead statue My love is calling you Did you hear me ? Did you see me

Perhaps I am a man Perhaps all the signs Carved in me By old loves By immature women Dissapearing in the morning Without a kiss These old signs The everyday lost battles And the headache

We shall die together, in a day of May We shall die together, like a dying book Like a lying legend, a remaining hook We shall die together, in a day of May We shall die together like the

Uncertain colour of rememberance Smiling softly. Passage.

In every one of us lies a little anarchist, a little rebel. We are rebelling against simple things or against complex ones. We are rebelling against injustice and pain- or just against an ugly boss.

For too much dream of love Now sorrow For too much joy Now hate Our broken wings Our broken swords Our broken dreams Now count no more

To be afraid of love, when all was said When all the spoken pearls have gone You always dance in darkness, silly maid Together with the sorrow almost done To be afraid of love, to dread a

What’s in a rose? For starters, a smell of rotten corpses those decay A very plain and very foggy day A dream not dreamed to the end and gay And loudish elves that begun to

For all those death, you are forgotten Like rain little after falling down You are absent and almost rotten You’ll never be back into town For all those death, we’ll aeternal miss

At least united, they sang from their graves The henchmen and their victims, rotten soil Their voices rising in a sad turmoil And asking just a question „Oh, why me? Born in a little, almost

„Here’s to the heroes Who never rest They are the chosen We are the rest...” Erkan Aki „Here’s to the heroes...” I am not a hero. Exactly, I am a coward and a pacifist. The heroes

Up just in the midnight sky There’s the last hope passing by Looking like a pizza pie. I’m dead but so alive Sadness flowing through my eyes Fishing after royal ties I’m alive but ah, so

Twisted thinking, twisted minds Futile tales of might and power Futile hopes of improvement Twisted tales, twisted beliefs The inner monster biting the heart of solitude Futile tries to