In the grave, you hear the choir of angels.
You look at the sky and wish to know,
Why they are not visible in the heavens.
As soon as the clouds go to sleep,
The angels can be seen in the sky.
Lonely, in fear, they ask "Why?"
Damn, I don't want to be an angel when I die.
Angels live for centuries
Far from us, beyond the clouds,
With the chilling of an icy soul
So ashen-white in paradise... :smile05: