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There are no questions, no riddles or a marks from the gods
No saviour, no redemption for the cross-bearing hearts

There are no footmarks to follow
Only the gallows in sight

This flesh is weakened and strained
Yet still roaming ahead

The tears of salt or the drops of blood
All shed from the same trees
And the roots of the scarred flesh
All spread into waste

There’s a mark, there’s an invisible scar
A sight with distorted hope, carved into stones
Written in trees, burnt into pages of history

And whether to fight or struggle in silence
To give steel or to lay in the pyres
A spear in the chest or a knife in hand
To lay below the soils or to march for these lands

The flesh is weakened and strained
Buried below the soils of the brave

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