A horseman heading to a city where black clouds are fleeing
London is divorced, wars are all around, you just need to survive under this rain
The cartridges are on the table, and next to the horn from the weapon
It seems to me or the police are a little fucked up
A bridge from the shore to the water where the mountains are far away
Birds are sitting on a branch next to a bitten apple
The earth and the moon are two friends to whom the stars shine
The revolver and the bullets to it are on the grate