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Few know the true lined face of mars |
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To charge across the desolation |
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Bayonets fixed for close quorter... |
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Sawbacks gleam red perspiration |
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Who among us would dare... |
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Dare to walk the killing fields ? |
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The heather that drank the blood of our fathers |
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And bled from trenches...slashed... |
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By what authority are we granted peace ? |
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Over dead bodies of the more worthy |
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More worthy than we |
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Like the moth, we serve the light blindly |
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Ever colliding with another servant |
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Capitulation, resignation |
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The rot seeps everywhere |
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Unstemmed tide of ruin |
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Entropy gathers and engulfs instead |
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Few know the true lined face of mars |
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But the lessons of the learned |
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Drawn from killing and burning fields |
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Offer a tourniquet to staunch the flow |
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But we'd rather stand and bleat |
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Flashes of the storm our only light |
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Perhaps it's time to burn again |
