Torched ground

 Every piece of magic lies dead in the wasteland

And what is that I hear

The sound of a blackbird sing?

The great war machine is rolling

Over the skulls of my friends

And the choas has come without warning

But there will be no end

You must live young fighter of virtue

Young or just old enough to die

These lies like crisps lie broken

On the path beneath the sky

Some foreign beast is howling

I can hear but don't understand

Why he is whining and calling

What hurt has done him such harm?

The fox is there in the graveyard sniffing 

Around the gravestones

And the tombs are full of embalming

But we are living, in a jeopardy time

The colours they stay on the beach

Miami is a miasma of sound

And yet the foreign beast he is calling

And I am on his home hunting ground

Take me back to when times were holy

And frozen as the eyelashes of care

The butterfly steps in the butter

And there is a fly which is buzzing somewhere

I saw her face in the mirror

I knew she was within and without

But crossed in the cross hairs of becoming

Some telegraph poles looking stout

The countryside dies in its marshes

Its willows are blowing in the wind

The streams are sold down the river

And on them our animal skins

I see a frogman is calling

Underwater trying to get out

We are strange in our ways without meaning

Without earth the sky would fall down

Some people know yet they don't speak

They move in the tide of their days

And a rise in the spirits of the marshland

I still need it in so many ways