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It was summer when they finally came, the law of force |
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and line upon line of machine upon machine, back into the greenwood, |
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closer to the heart of things we go - beneath the wires stretched against the sky, |
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spitting out in desperation - stop the killing . . . |
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The wind blows down from St George's Hill through to Stanworth Woods, |
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and to the East, on this grey and pallid dawn the lights from the rigs |
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blinking out across the poisoned sea, a little group of ships floating out to meet the coming storm |
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sailing on in desperation - stop the killing . . . |
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Raised and bound upon the land, and the everlasting whispers in diamond |
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through the trees, in the breath of Eden . . . |
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Innocent still the faith we hold - our time will come . . . |
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That which walks the corridors of power is a virus that mutates; |
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immune to all resistance, and every turn of history . . . |
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And all that's left for us is marking crosses upon doors, |
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and scrawling in the golden sand before each tide comes rolling in; |
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screaming out in desperation - stop the killing . . . |
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Holding on, and out, forever . . . |
