Seasons go by then always come back.
The story of mankind repeats constantly.
Life regenerates itself, as Earth spins round.
Being born, live, die and... come back?
Existence is made of cycles as we turn on ourselves, we dig our own hole.
It's the blue globe's wear
Times fades away but scars from the past are carried away with it.
Is future a projection of the past?
With present as the center cast.
In this sphere, where tragedy is history
Men have always been fighting for the same dream.
All is cyclical, trapped in a clock
For each and every element of life
All is cyclical.