Our faces on your macabre engravings,
Our hearts inside your ghastly chimeras,
Our ribs under your wheels,
And no reflection in your dim lead mirrors.
You’re like the flame of a candle after the candle is blown out
Yet like the strike of lightning burning the forest.
You give birth and bring death and devour our bodies
And the sleep of your reason produces our monsters.
Our souls under your collapsed rooftops,
Our fates in your dusty archives,
Our ashes over your bricks,
And no truces on your endless frontlines.
Our fingers in your unbreakable clutches,
Our brains sunk in your sick propaganda,
Our screams in your nights,
And your soul and our bodies are so wide asunder.
You’re like the flame of a candle after the candle is blown out,
You hide between blazing glares of glory and treason.
You give birth and bring death and devour our bodies
And the sleep of your monsters
Produces our (tiny) reason.
