Agalloch Into The Painted Grey
The jagged lines in these wooden hands
Speak of a silent aeon below the depths
Of an austere ebon tide
For centuries kingdoms have risen
Upon the ancient hands of a god
Once severed for the world's birth
A sacrifice to the storms of life
Now darkness is thine sanctum
Temples of magma stream across the grey
The arc that transcends my iconic pride
For I am not an ageless god, no, I am imprisoned by time
These ancient palms shall once again be mine
Hands... hands that lift the oceans
To vertical depths
Above the stars
For when I die,
The universe will die with me
and all will be lost, forever gone
Where am I?
How long shall I suffer here?
Forlorn in the cold neolithic embrace
Forsaken deep in the sullen tide
How long shall I suffer here?
Perched on the cliffside gazing out into the brine
My archaic beard pours downward and joins the feral sea
I am the heritage; the quintessence of myth and legend
The archetype of Pagan might and divinity
Hands... hands that lift the oceans
To vertical depths beyond the stars
I gather a celestial blanket around these tired bones
And finally slumber in clouds of ice
These are my hands...
...so it is done.
