(Stranglehold of The) Wet Hand

The fireworm crawls through the darkness Unconscious of what´s hiding in its bowels Undisturbed and unsuspecting The passengers are sleeping cheek by jowl Warm breath has damped the windows Now scab has formed around the frozen bite No cure within compartments No junction to rejoin the world outside The Wet Hand prowls the corridors Leaves a sweaty trail behind A smell of bitter almond Is rising from the wine The train is breaking through the depths of the night But the passage is too narrow for a flight The storm is raging and the hunters are weatherbound Groping for our tail-end lights Too slow to cross the line again The worm feeds on conductors Their accumulated minds have been distilled And aged in dark intestines Digested to mere excrements of our will The panes are stained by noses A shadows stalking past their vacant eyes Aligned spasmodic poses Focusing the crowd waving goodbye The Wet Hand lays its leather Around our sweaty necks We´re to die in drying weather Dried up to our dregs The engines drone against the push of the day No blindfolds to keep the dawn at bay Compartmentalized and caught in this funeral hearse Carried closer to her rays The train is breaking through the depths of the night But the passage is too narrow for a flight The storm is raging and the hunters are weatherbound Groping for our tail-end lights The Wet Hand strangles us and never will loose its grip Till we fade into the dead-end night