On a couch lies a woman
	Next to her a doll
A remnant of her childhood
	A symbol of the fall
Her head tilted back
	A smile on her face
But her wrists are slashed
	life is not the case
The one who found her body
	doesn't speak anymore
Bloodstains on the carpet
	Police at the door

This is a picture
	Of a woman that once was
A black and white photo
	not that it does
Anything more than what you see
	anything more than what could be
It could happen to you
	hell, it could happen to me
Suicide is something of choice
	Yet nobody wants to hear your voice
Nobody wants to listen
	So you cut and slash
Later the police come
	the photographer's bulb will flash.

Black and white memory
	holds much dread
Nobody remembers these people
	Nor the lives they led.
The book now remembers
	though it doesn't know their names
Just something more to put on the coffee table
	just a bunch of still frames.
It gets you thinking though
	so they didn't die in vain
You promise it won't happen to you
	but they'll still lie slain
History has forgotten them
	but the book remembers
Ask history to be kind to you
	and not leave you in the embers.

Morbid curiosity steals over
	just take one last peek
At the black and white photographs
	sitting on the antique
In Dutch and English
	the preface reads
But soon into the black and white mem'ries
	the wording leads.
The corpses of the long dead reach out
	beyond the grave
To beg of you one last favour;
	you should their memories save.

In black and white
	that's where they lay
In black and white
	night or day
Black and white photographs
	of ones long gone
Black and white photographs
	left to those who go on.

In memory of all our dead.