Panopticon The Death Of Baldr And The Coming Of War
in the darkest cracks of our psyche
lies a place where nothing grows.
descendent of the intrinsic fires
who's embers cease to glow
enveloped in despair
of political disrepair
while we feast on the scraps from the table of the
haves and have mores
(there's nothing there!)
they dine in celebration, raising their glasses to the
coming war
the iron fist of the sentinel
smashing our hopes as it comes down
we abandon lofty hopes
with our feet planted further in the ground.
who will muster the strength to rise?
who will muster the strength to rise?
Arise!
as the infantry line the streets
scattered with the malnourished bodies of our young
the weeping word: revolution: aching on our tongues
take up arms brothers and sisters.
now is the time to make the streets ours
as we've tried for years to find freedom
we call it the struggle, they call it crime:
NOW IS OUR TIME!
our time to die for freedom.
to be inspired by the ghosts of our past
FOR RED BLOOD TO STAIN BLACK CLOTHES
the pounding drums of the bombs blast!
we will gnash our teeth
and bathe in our own blood
we will die laughing
while we swim in the flood
victory may only exist in our minds
and in nature's oaken pantheon
when the lights finally go out,
the songs of our revolution will play on
the song of our revolution will play on.
