Текст песни Miasma - To Be Gentle

I held my breath in from the miasma,
Leaning on a dried-out shovel
Sweat slalomed down my gaunt face,
Gleaming in the summer sun

I looked at the cyclists passing by,
The birds flying overhead, the horses grazing;
I envied their luxury
Stranded on an island of dirt,

I grieved my labor
And conceded to the incessant noise
Of flies and insects swarming my body