In my time of dying
all i´ve grown to be
english can´t define these feelings
i keep waiting
there´s a strange time called
trying
that´s vague like us
i can always try harder
which means i never try enough
my mind is always crying
concentration, saturation,
an arquaintance is so nieve
or just a blind soul
fifty and a month
is so long for some
understanding becomes my
snair
the harder i struggle
the more confined i become
does quanity stop at empty
does quality stop with you
(chorus)
fifty and a month
is just a blink for me
fifty and a month
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