Bare feet on smouldering coal.
Black smoke amidst the mountain mist.
Race to the grim valley.
Another day is coming.
Their arrows will,
Be laced with the bark of the poisonous
And they shall,
March to the butchery,
Eat their offsprings and bring a generation to an ominous terminus.
The waves wave their goodbyes.
The seas seek a place to hide
From the scouring eyes
Of the lost République.
If the earth were flat,
Their journey would have come to an end
But at the horizon
Their destination remains ahead,
Those ahead of them
Are behind them.
Mountain goats, loose rocks find their way to the bottom.
Are they stumbling to the land of the silent
Or to the great plains of the eternally conquered?
Bandits bestride the hallowed chambers.
Prophets ogle from cross bars and groan.
Forlorn, forlorn, forlorn,