He crouches on the floor, there's a mask on the wall
And he leafs through the pages of a book
But wait as he may in the shadow of other leaves
His heart in embraces to times long since scorched
The horizon folds over with a purple sunrise
And the wind carries smoke from a world that is burning
The smoke clogs in his hair and he's covered with patterns
And a decent of life-trees on his camouflaged soul
With a winter of memories, carved powder-bone white
Beyond his skull's form, a scorpion lies
In the crunch of the snow, as his darkness increases
A twilight of ice encircles his teeth
This is a song for Douglas
After he's dead
This is a song for Douglas
His mercury dances
There's a swastika carved in the palm of his hand
There's a crooked cross that is caught in his mind
There waits a falling sun in his eyes
There's the honour of violence on his lips
His father waits for him near the towers of silence
Where they worship the fires, so long ago quenched
Under two willow trees with Elhaz inverted, the fork of life snapped
There, father and son will mingle in dust
As if life itself had been mostly illusion, but partially real
And partially pain
And over some wall, if you look through the rubble
Amongst ruins of churches, where life conquers death
Though empires can not last
Where blood and soil's concepts have faltered and failed
A cloud still sows teeth
As the world disappears
This is a song for Douglas
After he's dead
This is a song for my Douglas
His mercury dances
