No One Knows The Colour Of A

O Ruthless, Perilous, Imperious Hate, You Can Not Thwart The Promptings Of My Soul.

I Had Drawn Away Into The Salt, Myself, A Shell Emptied Of Life.

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.

No Man Will Be Present In Those Mysteries, Yet All Men Will Kneel, No Man Will Be Potent, Important, Yet All Men Will Feel What It Is To Be A Woman.

Lovers May Come And Go, There Was The Memory Of Blood, The Low Call.