Fall The Deep Curtains, Delicate The Weave,

Long Hours Trail In Their Purple And Long Years Are Lost In Just This Moment While Our Souls Are Near, Our Mouths Separate.

War Is A Fevered God Who Takes Alike Maiden And King And Clod.

There's A Black Rose Growing In Your Garden.

Take What The Old-church Found In Mithra's Tomb, Candle And Script And Bell, Take What The New-church Spat Upon And Broke And Shattered.

Every Concrete Object Has Abstract Value, Is Timeless In The Dream Parallel.