Strung high are the martyrs, Oh, how their crippled feet, they steal the sun. Their cause, noble, it's worthy, so I gift them death on their cross.
I paint them in His tongue's fire - breathe deeply of their fleeing spirits who billow from silenced mouths, the smoke from flesh that coils in service of the serpent who bore them - while their lake takes in familiar babes.
Their children, they breathe her heavy air, blue as the face that cloaks them, lost as the water's mercy.
They will know only her frigid arms. Delicate stones denied rest, limp, in the heavy breast of her depth.
I watched from across a freshly conquered sea as he placed a crown of retaliation upon the head of your country.
There were holes burned against a smouldering curtain - they resembled cathedrals and homes, shelter and worship cut from the fire of the sky (What a marvel! What a righteous blaze!...) - and into their absence did its people collapse. (. . . to witness a culture's story fold into the gravity of its own erasure.)Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
