The face on the winning card.
A thin and worn facade
he doesn't know which side he is on
and his words fail to cover the abyss of his haggard soul
his speech ragged like a holy man on laxatives
no monolith, nothing to stand for,

his black soiled robes were always and only blue, now, in the new light

Timeless land, 
how we have betrayed you, yet
committed to our crime,
my rhyme omitted

The bell of our voices lost to the sound of trees
cut down,

Rings on, like new,
A human heritage of voices
join with every seeker, every Archimedes,

Every prophet, there is no difference.
 
Our sound, Sheltered by the thundering mountain, in the distance
The mists over the hills carry on, conspiring about the divine
To those forest-wandering madmen, 
rejected for their crippling lack of everything
that is not song.

These songs so quiet
drowned in a whispering spring