|
We wane in remembrance, |
|
Drained by our scorn. |
|
The flocks of the patriarch throttled, |
|
Forlorn. |
|
We gasp with epiphany, |
|
Perception unmasked. |
|
Ranks of black muslin litter out path. |
|
Empyrian empties, |
|
On our woeful malaise, |
|
Engulfs and entwines our impious parade. |
|
These are the embers, |
|
The fetid ideal, |
|
The end of our chastity, |
|
Allow us to feel. |
|
Nerves remain tender, |
|
To touch makes us cry. |
|
We see through these windows now become eyes. |
|
Our burden is heavy, |
|
As we ascend. |
|
Like blemished flesh, |
|
The earth seems to rent. |
|
Pustules of faces, |
|
Mouths like crevasse, |
|
Our weathered coherence lost to morass. |
|
Our debts are paid to this epoch, |
|
Sanctimonious, |
|
No remorse. |
|
The king is dead! |
|
The king is dead! |
|
We bound his face! |
|
Cut off his head! |
|
We spit at thee, |
|
We curse at thee, |
|
The king is dead! |
|
Brothers and sisters, |
|
The king is dead! |
|
Cut him down, |
|
Flay his skin, |
|
Our god is dead! |
|
Courtisans! |
|
Compatriots! |
|
Lend me your ears, |
|
We slayed this demagogue, |
|
Dragged it to its knees. |
|
We cut all the sycophants, |
|
Deafened their call, |
|
We gave back the willing to better us all. |
|
We will not go quiet, |
|
We will not be restrained, |
|
We will not be slaves to an impotent regieme. |
|
Mark this in remembrance, |
|
The turning of tides. |
|
Our nascent republic, |
|
Born of [his] demise. |
|
The nativity! |
|
Our elegy! |
|
To this reform! |
