The Collection - Art of Dying [tekst, tłumaczenie i interpretacja piosenki]

Death sits inside his office as we wait for the verdict
He speaks our fate with a nervous tick; do we get the cure or the sickness?
And when we die, what will it be - a graveyard grave, or a golden fleece?
And will we fight or will we flee?
Will you still have faith in me?

I walk down the golden stairs and pray, again, the skeptics prayer
My grandpa is still sitting there asleep with a book in his red chair
I’m a father, and I’m a son, and I do not own any guns
I hope death don’t come from my hands so I can die a peaceful man

Can’t we say that we won’t know a single thing until the day that death itself is cast away
And I believe there’s nothing left to mar
I don’t know where I stand, but when I fall, its not too far

I hope you’re running down the road with a golden ring and a purple coat
To meet me when I pass through death with my brother and the fattened calf

I can’t see what it will be until my real name comes to me
I can’t see what it will be, so dance with me until I sleep