Logic cannot change the way,
These worlds dance with a dying sun;
The lights abound,
On blood kissed ground,
Illuminate the mist we are.
Cracking whip's just a noise made flesh,
Words tear with their paper skin,
Etch one tattoo,
Beat the other,
Ages rise from a mixed call -
Peace written on a war-drum's hide.
World behind a world,
Silhouette,
Puppeteer's hand shapes a song,
Lyrics melody and dance,
Waltz to a war-drum, hide.
We can be like iron wrought,
Knowledge sought,
Furnace of thought,
Are we our design or
are we more the metal we were born?
Fur and leather seared to steel,
Wood and resin become real,
We are the words so justified,
As long as we take our own side.
We made the war-drums, sighed.
Clockwork human,
Copper soul,
Graven gears in a craven
whole
Wires for neurones,
Oil for blood,
This liquid life force forged from mud.
Timber, feather, leather, hide,
We made the war-drum's bride,
Piston, pipe, pivot, pin,
Flesh, bone, blood, skin,
Voice, touch, taste, sight,
We are the mantra:
Darkness, light.
We deny the very steps we take,
So we are sundered, still,
Cracks in glaze,
Polished grazed,
The sublime and the wounded,
Beauty of the hollow vessel,
Waiting to be filled;
A fragile creature,
Willing skinned,
No doctor here to operate,
A mechanic's here instead.
Blood drenched and breathing;
Afterbirth of doubt,
War-drum heart retaught,
No mistakes can hands now make,
To break the pattern of what we are for,
So we in meaninglessness and peace,
Are cast aside from the arms of war.
