The Verge. The Field Of Burning Crosses 22. 12. 16

Epigraph:    "...Tell me how does it feel
When your dreams are wrecked and lost
And confined within the sea of time
Treason, way beyond all reason and white lie
There's a time when the truth comes down to die..."
       Morten Veland "Veil of Winter"

In the midwinter moonlight I stand on the verge
Feel the howl of the north wind is my final dirge
It looks whole this damned leap-year I moved to the end
So alone, that 'twere none to concur or contend

Not the first time in my life I saw the hope dies
Watched the rivers of tears and the people's vile lies
The long terrible nights and the desperate days
Let me sense e'en the trained reason sometimes betrays

There were too many innocent deaths, too much war
The steel scythe of the reaper worked duly. What for?
Every piece of news wrapped in the devilish fraud
Seemed right apocalyptic though dull and absurd

If I take a look back, I may witness the tombs -
The renowned rest in peace. The not found - in the coombs
I know everything withers but actually deem -
There is no saddest act than to bury the dream

It is interesting, really, what part of mankind
Lives like me - with no point and no future assigned,
By inertia, fancying ahead nothing else
'Cept tne darkness and sorrow? For whom the bell knells?

My precursors and guides - almost everyone's gone
My beloved land is broken, forsaken, forlorn
And the altars I kneeled to are shattered as well
It's the omen of limbo and thus begins Hell

Not afraid to be lost, I will ne'er pass for cheap
With my poetry I've built my fortress, my keep
But the ills of the earth so exhaust me, so tire
That I think, some world's outgrowths are worthy of fire...

It's the augural signs - the wrecked ship on the reefs
And the crooked stelae image my ruined beliefs
I'd not stoop to the spite, but the thing I do hate
Is the reign of the scoundrels who try to dictate

The abyss of the grim disappointment within
My iced soul will stay after these months of routine
We've no place to escape from the horrors which kill
And no cult can redeem us, nor scheme nor high will

Once I prayed to the godheads and reached for the stars
But today it's all turned into falsehood and farce
Now the faith's with the bigotry's blood noose entwined
And the the burnt crosses' field is what I leave behind