Refuge Wasteland

This is the pillar of the world,
the begotten land that holds the stars
Here's a fig tree in a desert place
It is a banquet to the soulless,
a funeral feast that chastises the tongue
The happy sands sang of skulls
and corpses planted to raise the dead
from the Stygian hell

Bread is made of hard stones
and wine is made of dust,

The graves stood tenantless and the sheeted dead
hung from the harvest moon,
under which children sang of ashes
and mulberry bushes
while eyeless ghosts cut threads -
a prologue of coming omens
as stars with trains of fire and dews of blood,
fell upon white faces

Bread is made of hard stones
and wine is made of blood

What silence is there
in lost bones and the whispers
of rats praying to fallen gods
I do not know, I do not know
but I want to die.
What is it you want
I want to die, and let me die
there is nothing more I can do.

Here the dead are buried a sweet good night
under leaves of fire that
fell long ago.
There is great silence under the stars
and the wind is choked, unable to give
its fire sermon, a chant to echo
the cries of dead, hollow men

We're all hungry, but the bread is dry and wretched
For so many days there's so little food,
and even apples which we once prayed to
are old, dry and cracked
We're cold in this camp of fallen angels,
we're full of malice and silence.
The night is a field of shadows
and before sleep the children pray to the trees of god
searching for a sign of life,
but the sun no longer yields touch or taste
and we're all hungry
The sun only kills the children
in the sea of ash, while we try
to chew on make-believe apples
to find salvation from the gift of fire
With an eager appetite every smell raises us
with longing eyes to the sun,
but noon draws and dies to dusk and night

Some are deflowered, others are dead
This cursed land takes so much
and gives so little,
until all we have to eat is flesh
and the dust to which we'll die to
The ground is piss-sour
and we choke and writhe in agony,
The weight of this sad time we must obey;
bow to saints and demons
and those who've painted our eyes with
curses of a stricken land

This is so unreal, and we're exhausted
with the turning of the sun
and the dying, moving on
These hours are violent,
and white bodies are naked on the ground
smeared in bile and vomit,
it's such a vile sight to see
the evil of this winter land

Hurry up please it's time
and we march away from the sun
like proper fools whose purposes
are to become a heap of broken bodies
with failed eyes, neither living nor dead