The Poets Are Dead And The Pigs Have Taken Over

And the morning arrives early
Like mornings tend to do
I see their eyes as lifeless graveyards
With words cold like polished steel

Somewhere in the distance
The trains are passing by
Against the canvas of Northern evening
That cuts right through the years

Come early days of April
With all the cruelty it keeps
Watch the sun set sadly over the houses
While the world is still asleep

The birds are slowly circling
Over the old courtyard
My days slowly slip into the darkness and
What chokes my insides
Is a song from recurring dreams
I carry heavy like a stone
A song from recurring nightmares
That cut right to the bone

Slowly arrives Summer
Dressed in blue and green
And the years they crack like gentle crystal
In the grasp of swines that feast

If nothing ever changes, how can I face the eyes I meet
When the verses all are written
And the piano keys are mute
Do you eyes still fill with water
From the poems that you read
Is there any sort of sadness
When the last of the books are burned

Images of dying start to pave their way

And I claim boldly
That none of this will darken your skies
When the pigs have taken over
And the serenade is dead
When the songs filled with lifesblood
Are driven into the sea
And the dawn comes sadly dawning on
New Europe's fascist dreams