Bury my hands where the rivers dried, Under cracked moons and broken sky. The bones of kings grind into sandā Whisper my name into a dead manās land. Wolves wear crowns in the cities' dust, Ash in the lungs of the ones we trust. We bled our gods ātil they choked on gold, Slept in the ruins of prayers unsold. We are the wound of the worldā Open, weeping, never healed. Carve our sins into the stones, Sing us out, Leave us alone. Mothers hum dirges to empty cribs, Seas cough up their skeleton ships. Every breath tastes like borrowed flame, Every word forgets its name. I watched the mountains crack and sigh. I touched the rain and it turned to knives. I kissed the dirt, it swallowed me wholeā Still I crawl, still I call... We are the wound of the worldā Sewn shut with threads of blood and bone. No gods, no kings, no mourning bellsā Just the echo, And ourselves. Lay me down in the silence spent. Mark my grave with nothing left. Not light, not hope, not prayer, not pearlā Just a name forgotten: Wound of the World.
