the year of our redundant theme
waits for the birth of yesterday
lacks an edge or steel for pride
so lowley and beaten and strung from the wire
guards to watch as blood dries
no hope in thy might so they choose flight
no charge for the rage
no widom in ten billion drops of sand
all scattered and spread against the world
blowen by the wind, landing where they can
Places that Did Not match thine eyes
little profit and keys to the signs
To give for naught is the only road
the edge of hands meet in some great plan
deamn't long before stances spread -
across these foreign tongues the words, i love. . .
sung upon the brow of hope - i know. . .
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