---

We - the salvaged,
from which bones death cuts his pipe,
on which sinews he wielded his bow.
Our bodies sigh for this times,
with their garbled sound.
Fears worm has riven on us.

This chain of riddles,
layed around the neck of the night.
Kings word written far away
blured by the comets trail, when skies torned wound cut.

There in the beggar that walks on knees,
that measured all streets by his trunk.
It will be outsuffered - the written
and dying will be learned - in patiance.

We - The salvaged,
the noose twisted for our neck:
They still pend in the blue sky before us.
And the feed for the clockwork
is still our gouting blood.
Our stars are buried in dust.

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