crisis has a fact to get straight
it needn't be the end of the world
beginnings too are coated with death
because we've had enough of the old's
dirty jokes doesn't mean there's no
more grass ready to push itself up
or dreams can't go on being lived
the dreamers' necks having been twisted
(visions root in mists and spread outwards)
the chrysalis has to be taken apart
for the wings to erupt into freedom
ideas grow from the flesh they've grown into
murder's a godfather to birth
and the born sing illiterate songs
they intend as a new kind of language
only as their hands bloom red
with their own brand of murders
will their words simmer down to the same
but their rawness is something to hope for
and the cry in the middle of hate
is a cord we should grasp - no matter
how often it will serve as a noose
- when the dungeon we're in is so cosy
crimes-to-come put the boot in for eden
