| The open archways sound of loneliness | |
| The yellow walls colour your shadows | |
| The shouting brains echoes in the square | |
| Forbidden ground draws the eyes | |
| A pace sounds like heavy clogs on the floor | |
| The columns are moisten with scoring hans sweat | |
| The wooden ceiling is a weigh for my mind | |
| The light tries hard to reach the inner side | |
| From time to time the bell reminds you seclusion | |
| They tech you an open mind on that closed court | |
| Centuries have gone but the days still have to come | |
| The smell of the chalk goes into your skin | |
| The stained-glass windows that point at the sky | |
| Are not so fragile as the age in which I live... | |
| ... the age of glass | |
| The stained-glass windows that point at the sky | |
| Are not so fragile as the age in which I live... | |
| ... the age of glass |
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