In warm sand, I bury my right hand
To pluck a rose from this barren land
In the words of my fathers before
I feel the breath of death at my door

But the weight, of fresh paint, all the way downstairs

In this dust, a man's heart would rust
Where my eyes fail, my heart would surely trust
I see your eyes and the wreath upon your head
I give you my life to protect until I'm dead

But the weight, of fresh paint, all the way downstairs