Or pass through walls, as smoke or mist
Then imagine never being loved
Never in your life be kissed
Shunned by most, feared by all
Driven from our lands, our homes
Yet we stand proud, we stand tall
Hunted, killed or worse
We see our differences as great gifts
Others see them as a curse
Life's candle's burnt, the end comes soon
And when the last of us are gone
The will be no more Tribes Of The Moon
