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All murderers are punished unless they kill in
large numbers and to the sound of trumpets.
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　Voltaire

An ancient story once been told and saved within a page
for centuries, yet now it's bound to burn, we've set the stage:
no trial as such - a single match and off you go, no strings attached

Black butterflies – a paper ash appearing swiftly, in a flash -
they're prowling; still prowling while scorching wind is howling
Black butterflies are on my sleeve, these signs of guilt would never leave
they're burning, still burning, ascending yet returning

We've been created from above yet governed from below
So how on earth we're better off - ALL RISE! - the less we know?
A sudden turn but we're not concerned: as long as books are being burned

Black butterflies – a paper ash appearing swiftly, in a flash -
they're prowling; still prowling while scorching wind is howling
Black butterflies are on my sleeve, these signs of guilt would never leave
they're burning, still burning, ascending - returning
Black butterflies are on my hands, this sort of madness never ends,
not ever. Forever we'll bear this cross together

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