In an empty room eyes without a face.
They are stirring other images,
glimpses of a distant life,
of a gone life.
The hands cannot identify the face
Behind the Iron Mask
Dim is within on the plane of the mind
a kneeled spirit under the boot of fear
cleansed with torture
traped in purity by the whip.
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Daggers from sound penetrate
resistance behind each one,
a Holy inquisitor.
Mouths reveal the presence of
haunted beings unworthy to be said alive.
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Open the window
Release the spirit from this empty body
Behind the Iron Mask
Draining pleasures from mental wounds
a need opposed to false excuses
unveils the greatest beast.
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Artist: The Cure