You slow and dieing beasts of burden,
Who is there to release you from years

Without harvest and acid rains infused with smoke?

Who once rejoiced in life as there

Was no inkling of pain and sorrow,
Is now the monster born of torture.
To whom hope has become an

Elusive quality and the keepsake of dandies.

He screams without crying.
He bleeds but it isn't blood.
My host is the captive to Satan's Cross.
In the dark corridors of this dwelling delusions are fostered and babies look on,
As souless martyrs live free as if the suburbs were a concentration camp.
The Lord has invited me to partake in a mass where we hold aloft a strange chalice and drink with peasants who are ourselves,
Kind enough to say "why are you so sad?"
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