souls.
In search of light it's easy
to find shad ows.
At first all was clear as night.
But this would prove to fade.
As we pressed on deeper still,
We found the land you
sold as golden meadows.
A blight ridden ashen ground
And there we killed the truth.
Then compassion died too.
I know my death has a face.
It is an image of you,
And you're plentiful.
There we would build our mounds.
On these scared cold plains,
Where dawn had turned to ashes.
Amongst men with empty eyes
Grace can't be dis tinguished.
In our quest for light
We would advance and leave
our wake in tatters.
Just like death on a rampant ride
On our zealous quest for
you.
There hung a rag for our wounds
at the end of the line.
It meant death to go back;
It was a crime of the mind.
When that whistle blew
it was once more our time,
To show our spirits were primed
and our bodies were ripe.
On the day we killed the truth
And compassion died too.
My death is an image of you
In its grandeur and grace;
Divine, ap palling!