In Anno Domini, Two Thousand O One Nine, the love once more from me withdrew, as I began to figure out, on one rainy afternoon, that I was never going to get over you.
It took two hundred forty three years of maintaining liberty just to allow me time to grow, but in a world so often cruel, it takes a special kind of fool to hear your sound all around and think it’s true.
Still, I hear you whisper, from a time long past and gone, though I don’t understand the language that you use. And the writing on the wall says I was always going to fall. ‘Cause I was never really looking for the truth.
In Anno Domini, Two Thousand O One Nine, I recall the proverbs I once was told. And the Brimstone in my heart weeps from my eyes, becoming salt, as I look back and think about what once was home.
Scorching winds and fiery coals as I take counsel in my soul. In my distress, I call to thee! But your comfort, you withhold. The ember dies, and I grow cold, as in the silence I concede I’m alone.
Yet still, I hear you whisper, from a time long past and gone, but I don’t comprehend, despite how hard I try. I read the writing on the wall, but still I stumble. Still I fall. ‘Cause I was never really looking for the light.
Yet still, I hear you whisper, from a time long past and gone. Eloi, Eloi, Lamma Sabachthani? How come the voices in my soul whisper still here in Anno Domini Two Thousand O One Nine?