| Song | The Polymath |
| Artist | This or the Apocalypse |
| Album | Monuments |
| 作曲 : This Or The Apocalypse | |
| In conduits we drift apart, | |
| There is vastness within and all around us. | |
| Though we may deny ourselves the thought, | |
| That this was something real, | |
| I can finally say that I'm not dead yet. | |
| There are no chains as tight as the search for something real, | |
| How they burn the skin of the vehement. | |
| Both last known bodies of matter, drifting into themselves. | |
| We're caught in the in the teeth of our own temper, | |
| We are what we consume. | |
| You create what you are. | |
| Appeal, on which the ground you stand. | |
| Appeal, in the throes of death. | |
| Appeal, in a delirium of sleep. | |
| Appeal, for our strength is gone. | |
| Spoken by a man unbound, | |
| Taught beneath the hands in shackles, | |
| It has invited a scourge. | |
| What makes you think you give of anything at all? | |
| The killer hides his face, | |
| The stoic waits his turn. | |
| We all had our chance. | |
| Apparitions show themselves deep within ruminative voice. | |
| It is man himself who speaks at length of wars that go unnoticed. | |
| And it is truly all you have. | |
| No blueprints, no warning. |
| zuò qǔ : This Or The Apocalypse | |
| In conduits we drift apart, | |
| There is vastness within and all around us. | |
| Though we may deny ourselves the thought, | |
| That this was something real, | |
| I can finally say that I' m not dead yet. | |
| There are no chains as tight as the search for something real, | |
| How they burn the skin of the vehement. | |
| Both last known bodies of matter, drifting into themselves. | |
| We' re caught in the in the teeth of our own temper, | |
| We are what we consume. | |
| You create what you are. | |
| Appeal, on which the ground you stand. | |
| Appeal, in the throes of death. | |
| Appeal, in a delirium of sleep. | |
| Appeal, for our strength is gone. | |
| Spoken by a man unbound, | |
| Taught beneath the hands in shackles, | |
| It has invited a scourge. | |
| What makes you think you give of anything at all? | |
| The killer hides his face, | |
| The stoic waits his turn. | |
| We all had our chance. | |
| Apparitions show themselves deep within ruminative voice. | |
| It is man himself who speaks at length of wars that go unnoticed. | |
| And it is truly all you have. | |
| No blueprints, no warning. |