| Phantoms Phantoms beating them damned wings around me not the same breezes that swept round the altars of man no, not the same the stench of vox populi sky is as azure as ever and the birds of plenty gather to speak in prophetess of not if, but when the end of seasons comes and all our heroes are exposed and the madness that was propagated in the heart of silent mountains and of the millions of invisible questions that rise up from the dying lands of the emptiness that fills us of the fillings that empty us and of their sorrow for the road-kill fox that lay smeared on the grassy strip in the middle of the big road that everyone drove by for three days that no one picked up man, soldier on ugly, no heart no pause ~shalome Copyright � 2006 2007. All Rights Reserved. |