Burnıng Cırcle - Ghosts Crying

[Music by A. Stojkovic & P. Pavlovic, Lyrics by A. Stojkovic]

One day I was walking down
The street of my childhood,
It seemed like there was no one else around,
I walked the well known pavements
Of my neighborhood,
And my footsteps were the only present sound,

I turned left at the end of an alley,
Near the old elm,
I looked upon the wooden creature,
And he looked down on me,
He knew where I was going, and I didn't tell,
I passed the rusty gates of an old cemetery,

All of a sudden, the giggling breeze,
Turns into the lament of the dying,
I could hear the wails, yet I couldn't see,
But I knew for sure that ghosts were crying.

It was one December eve,
When fog lays all around,
Once again, as usual,
I went out for a walk,
I took the well known path,
Near the burial ground,
And once again I heard
The most unusual talk,

I wasn't scared,
As it was familiar voice,
I dared not to look;
I didn't push my luck, But magic pulled me by the sleeve --
Made of steam and moist,
And as I opened my eyes I was stuck!

The tombs were open,
As well as all the coffins,
No names on the gravestones,
No crosses in the ground,
And all that was left
Was fog that was soaring,
The fog was made of tears, i found.

Cold tomb, is now my room,
Of slow decay, or so they say,
All turns to dust,
All turns to dust,

But my last wish, if anyone can hear,
To become a tear,
The teardrop is clear,
The teardrop is clear,

I'm not the filthy dust,
I won't go down and rust,
The water goes around,
From cloud to soil, beneath the ground,

The spring of eternity,
And for a second in a living cell,
And across the galaxies,
Way beyond the earthly hell,

My soul is the teardrop
In the vast oceans of lifetime!