(Visions of Bodies Being Burned, Track 6)
The man you say brought us here is a kind of prophet.
He saw the cloaks along the shoreline,
knew the foul faith deep within their threads.
Such powerful irony, then, to share a
tone of voice with those hooded shadows,
men who call themselves warlocks of a pure truth
they could never read. Ever notice
how they huddle around warped symbols,
pledge fealty to idols long since dust,
march on wearing capsized ideas
on their heads to hide from sight?
They hope some twisted nature will reveal
deserved kingdom, will let any void
glimpse them if they’ll have it, slip on
monstrous shapes they call heritage
and drift through the earth like wind-snatched
kite paper. And for what?
What else than to own the carcass
of a land already bought in blood?