Our day bears a Sun, a Moon, and a Morning Star… We are but pools for reflecting their light. But what of the souls that hold but death, Dripping like tar from tattered lives? Their dreams are silver teardrops In the silent wells of dawn. Their perfection is our sin! Our fault is complete! Lovers waging war with poets and painters, Sheath golden swords dripping blood. The key of Hell’s day is raised in defiance, And that of Heaven is cut from blessed neck! Crazed men cling to cold, dead bodies, Fearing the warm breath pressing on their souls. Snake fangs eat the food of the poor, And drink the wine of the holy! Still so many words lie deep in sleep, Couched on the lips, yet unsaid… Oh feel as your own this great unrest! Our fault is complete! The word was lost before it escaped! If only we knew our time, Our dreams whose visions hold time’s sleep. Stars torn from the sky, Ten seconds dead on the wind, Declaring in the voice of a child: God is dead! We fly across the night sky And tumble to our death below...
