|
Kings of our emptiness, the flagellants align |
|
Their mouths fill with questions, blessed they are by God's tokens |
|
Ware to walk the painted... the painted path |
|
Walking the painted path through our plague fields |
|
Ware to walk the painted path |
|
Through the plague fields |
|
Kings of this carousel, disfigured upon white horses |
|
With Goya's claws and Dore's wings |
|
Down golden locks to red crosses |
|
Crowned children screaming from funeral shrouds |
|
To rapid eye movement, heart-strings undone |
|
... our beautiful filth dances... and plague flowers |
|
Why our wall to reason fall... only human |
|
Kings of our emptiness, the flagellants align |
|
Their mouths fill with ashes and death's tongue |
|
The dappled dying |
|
Flowering cold grey tombs |
|
With crumbling walls... I feel |
|
Our truth is laid bare |
|
... And plague colours |
|
A masterpiece of pain |
|
The portrait of what we are... |
