|
It's a early rise |
|
His teeth are furred |
|
And cleanse with hands to hunt and hold |
|
The sun divides |
|
Imagined leaves |
|
A shelter while |
|
I sleepThere are many years |
|
To cloud my mind |
|
But no burden |
|
It's heavy like a tipping load |
|
Early dayOn a bloodied patch |
|
Only noise and brick surround |
|
Tradition sinks |
|
In the soil here |
|
As a rock is swallowed in the mud |
|
The polluted skin |
|
Of my brittle earth |
|
It keeps the bleeding at bay |
|
This syrup sweet |
|
And thick to exchange me |
|
My spirit has rearranged |
|
Crippled, dampened, lame |
|
As it goes |
|
The syrup fills my eyes |
|
The days faces fade to black |
|
And I don't feel |
|
And I can't fight |
|
For my home anymore |
|
AnymoreAnd |
|
I return to an open land |
|
Where blood's blanket shielded me |
|
This syrup sweet and thick to exchange me |
|
My spirit has rearranged |
|
Crippled, dampened, lame |
