The gallows stood like a crooked cross, where the wind forgot to pray. A violin string - snapped in the frost. A church bell - buried in hay. The sky tore like old skin. We looked up - but we saw inside. And the dead? They did not sleep. They buzzed over their shoulders and spoke through the sheep. I met a man without a name. He had a smile and eyes full of flames. He whispered: “This is not death - This is a test.” ha ha ha And the nose? And roses for those who prayed too late. We danced under a hanging tree - with broken clocks and bloody tea. ha ha ha They called it justice. They called it war. But all I saw was a rope and a floor. And when I sang the sky sang in ravens, in ash, in a broken track. la la la la la We wear the night like a second skin. We howl and burn and hang inside.
