Hollow Branches - Blood For The Grove

We came clothed in ash and thorn, Tore the wires from the breathing hills. No gods in the sky, Only watchers in the bark, Whispering: “Burn what bleeds the root.” Chainsaws sang their death-psalms, So we sang louder, With rusted tools and oaths in mud. Felled their altars of glass and greed, Salted their roads with lichen and bone. Blood for the grove! Ash for the wind! Let industry choke on its splinters! We bury their progress in worm-mouthed graves, And feed the dark where it still grows green. They called us savage. We called it sacred. In the belly of the forest, we carved runes with gasoline and moss. Every spark a prayer. Every collapse a hymn. O elder root, wake your teeth. O forgotten god, clothed in ivy. Spilt blood is your river. Smoke is your psalm. Blood for the grove! Ash for the wind! Let industry choke on its splinters! We bury their progress in worm-mouthed graves, And feed the dark where it still grows green. Blood for the grove! Ash for the wind! Let the blackened soil rise again! We are the fire at the end of the trail… The rot that screams: “You were warned.”