The trees are listening each time a missile's made,
They hide three mystics the Earth sends from her grave to tell us the future has been stolen away by diggers, drillers and sellers.

We won't stop 'til we're under a black sky.

He took my picture in the cemetery sun,
My body was tempted to crumble into one,
Reunion of dust, until creation's done,
Returning ashes to ashes.

But we won't stop 'til we're under a black sky.

The commerce, the intrigue,
Self-slaughtered souls cry out to dead, poor men, for a drink at the water hole,
Their tongues will burn dry as the day they were sold for forests, raped into deserts.

We won't stop 'til we're under a black sky.