Hind

At the waning of the shadows on these humble feet I stand
In contemplation of the creeping fingers of the devil's hand
Awaiting with impatient tempest rolling there within my mind
Of the things that have been stolen, things that are rightfully mine

Of the words and glancing gestures of the never spoken things
Of the moments ticking quietly from out the hidden things
Of the simplest of grazes of the quiet of embrace
Of the tiny little nothings of this great immortal race

I have walked upon the mountains that do never shed their snow
I have peered into the precipice and watched the water flow
I have sat in holy reverence neath the mighty white oak trees
I have bathed the blood of evil there in waters cold as these

There's a twinkling of the heavens looking down from long ago
On a moment stretched to breaking by the sins that no one told
And I'll be damned if I will pay the price for all your tepid deeds
Or trim excess from tainted briars grown from your unholy seeds

And though the fetters have been set and long ago was lost the key
Though the fire burned away the face of spirit there in me
Though the callous walls of providence have cast their fated lot
Though the sickness has infested and the carcasses they rot

There's a glimmer of defiance that will not be shuttered now
Taste of purest contradiction before which the gods do bow
Where the light is searching frantic to condemn these blessed deeds
I will turn and, rustling whispers, disappear into the reeds.