It was summer when they finally came, the law of force
and line upon line of machine upon machine, back into the greenwood,
closer to the heart of things we go - beneath the wires stretched against the sky,
spitting out in desperation - stop the killing . . .
The wind blows down from St George`s Hill through to Stanworth Woods,
and to the East, on this grey and pallid dawn the lights from the rigs
blinking out across the poisoned sea, a little group of ships floating out to meet the coming storm
sailing on in desperation - stop the killing . . .
Raised and bound upon the land, and the everlasting whispers in diamond
through the trees, in the breath of Eden . . .
Innocent still the faith we hold - our time will come . . .
That which walks the corridors of power is a virus that mutates;
immune to all resistance, and every turn of history . . .
And all that`s left for us is marking crosses upon doors,
and scrawling in the golden sand before each tide comes rolling in;
screaming out in desperation - stop the killing . . .
Holding on, and out, forever . . .