By David Evans

Eternity brooding, the mystery gestating
Then comes the mortal storm,
And the whole epic of man arising
A lovely rose, a bloody thorn.

Adam and Eve cast from the garden sublime
Now dance between the clashing rocks,
Condemned to the field of time
Cursed by the slashing tick and tock.

Haunted by the myth of Man’s fall
We have written history’s many bloody pages,
With original sin casting it’s pall
Over all the guilty ages.

Are we really the brutish creatures
That the holy clergy must instruct,
To escape this mortal flicker feature
Before we self destruct.

I bequeath my pound of flesh
To future generations,
Who will follow my heavenly quest
Singing their lovely lamentations.

You are a race that has been imprisoned
Lashed by the algorithms of a rogue mind,
Your hell self fashioned
In a land where the blind lead the blind.

For none are more hopelessly enslaved
Than those who believe they are free,
Victims of an evil conclave
That has drained the sap from life’s tree

We have written so many bloody pages of history
That we have become convinced of our sins,
Eclipsing the joy of the great mystery
With anguished tears filling history’s dustbin.

For we are a race that craves sufferings bitter sweet taste
In the disguise of humble nobility,
Adorning our lives with a false sense of grace
While we run like crazy from our own morbidity.

Rise up! Rise up! You sloven race of sheep
Loose your lion hearts,
Escape once and for all this devil’s keep
While singing your soul’s true art.