Lyrics:

Cousins

Is it the painter or the picture hanging in the gallery ?
Admired by countless thousands who attempt to read the secrets
Of his vision of his very soul.

Is it the painter or the picture hanging in the gallery ?
Or is it but a still life of his own interpretation
Of the way that God had made us in the image of His eye ?

Is it the sculptor or the sculpture standing in the gallery ?
Touched by fleeting strangers who desire to feel the strength of hands
That realised a form of life.

Is it the sculptor or the sculpture standing in the gallery ?
Or is it but the tenderness with which his hands were guided
To discard the unessentials and reveal the perfect truth ?

Is it the actor or the drama playing to the gallery ?
Heard in every corner of the theatre of cruelty
That masks the humour in his speech.

Is it the actor or the drama playing to the gallery ?
Or is it but the character of any single member of the audience
That forms the plot of each and every play ?

Is it the singer or his likeness hanging in the gallery ?
Tongue black, still and swollen, his eyes staring from their sockets
He is silent now, will sing no more.

Is it the singer or his likeness hanging in the gallery ?
Or is it but his conscience, insecurity and loneliness
When destiny becomes at last the cause of his demise ?