They stand shoulder to shoulder,
their jaws tightened with grief.
I stand as a translator.
I lean in and repeat,

This is a lesson in history,
The victors knew victory and the vanquished knew war.
But though their voice would come later,
it's power was greater. They survived and endured.

I'm coated with sorrow
like fresh ice on a lake.
Though periodically shattered,
overnight it's replaced,

because there are wall scale projections
of the most meaningless questions by the museum's store.
And somewhere ashes still crackle
and casualities stack until we can't see them anymore.

The sputtering engines, the boundaries of will.
The leaking containers you're reluctant to fill.
Defining illusions, exhausted and old.
Your shrinking perspective as it gets cold.

Things I've deemed immutable,
they were all vulnerable to change,
while my most transient habits
are almost all that remain.

Life can float on the surface
of things predetermined and wilt like brightening leaves.
While you're enslaved by possessions,
reflexive aggressions and ornimental misery.

So let's take all this darkness,
convert it to art, and scrape the rust from our souls.
Crowd in to every omission with more extensive ambition
than just damage control.

Damage control.


Lyrics submitted by serial7

Holocaust Art song meanings
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