| It was summer when they finally came, the law of force
|
| And line upon line of machine upon machine, back into the greenwood
|
| Closer to the heart of things we go — beneath the wires stretched against the
|
| sky
|
| Spitting out in desperation — stop the killing. |
| .
|
| The wind blows down from St George’s Hill through to Stanworth Woods
|
| And to the East, on this grey and pallid dawn the lights from the rigs
|
| Blinking out across the poisoned sea, a little group of ships floating out to
|
| meet the coming storm
|
| Sailing on in desperation — stop the killing. |
| .
|
| Raised and bound upon the land, and the everlasting whispers in diamond
|
| Through the trees, in the breath of Eden. |
| .
|
| Innocent still the faith we hold — our time will come. |
| .
|
| That which walks the corridors of power is a virus that mutates;
|
| Immune to all resistance, and every turn of history. |
| .
|
| And all that’s left for us is marking crosses upon doors
|
| And scrawling in the golden sand before each tide comes rolling in;
|
| Screaming out in desperation — stop the killing. |
| .
|
| Holding on, and out, forever. |
| . |