|
What cruel fire, what land forlorn |
|
Will raise its plaint in time? |
|
What black spring blooms |
|
In your eyes? |
|
Whose blood will taint |
|
This land of mine? |
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And he who makes bread |
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Ought to eat |
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And he who fights ought to rest |
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And though it is truth we seek |
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It just won't do to serve |
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With the best |
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Now make your pact with time |
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And the worlds you are stealing |
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For you will only find me |
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In what I'm leaving |
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And we'll all be drowned |
|
Just wait and see |
|
In the hollow sound |
|
Of marching feet |
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And the blood bleeds black |
|
The blood runs red |
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You made all t hat is yours |
|
But they are here to offend |
|
Your housings |
|
Your silent tents |
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And to teach all eyes to close |
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But you sold your spades |
|
On the mournful autumn train |
|
A lifetime ago |
|
And you give the fruit |
|
Of your flight |
|
For a loaf of light |
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For you don't know |
|
How to make your pact with time |
|
And the worlds you are stealing |
|
For you will only find me |
|
In what I'm leaving |
|
And we'll all be drowned |
|
Just wait and see |
|
In the hollow sound |
|
Of marching feet |
|
And we'll all be drowned |
|
Just wait and see |
|
In the hollow sound |
|
Of marching feet |
