All my cold is left in dust.
Suck the wind from my walls,
And leave me tumbling in deserts.
I’ll pray I’m struck by a bolt of lightning.
So I’m left running,
Touch the leaves on my fingers
And brush the flowers in my eyes.
Tear my trunk to shreds.
Drink the dreams of my conscience,
And drown me in that thick, black blood
That’s swirling and thundering through my veins.
The flood is coming.
We wash our bodies in the fire,
And we feast from the piles of ash.
We gouge each other’s skin
And beat each other with lies,
All for a taste of freedom.