This is the land of nothingness
and penetrated glass
where shardmen's hardened cloth caress
the feet of newborn as
they sway in their inheritance
on bloodshot limbs by birth's entrance.

This is the landlord's mastersky
of crying crystallizing
among its cheeks of steelbent rye
where grids of red are rising.
Inbound behind this grating
by cellarearth sedating
the willingness that wish to flee
is cut out of its anguish,
unwillingly the ill will be
where He is held to languish.
The wildfed, childbled beast
by westerned world released.

(The beast of red is rising,
crying crystallizing.)

We did take no prisoners,
we did take no prisoners,
she did take no prisoners
here.
A glass is but a holder
which mirrors the beholder
and the only thing black
that's holding him back
is fear.

Who art thou', Harmony?
Who art thou', Harmony?
Who art thou', where part thou'
tonight?
Harmony, my only
do you see the dusk widening
where hiding is hiding
in shardmen, thy ancestral light?
See, suns do destroy
the sons who decoy.

(She walks the Nothingland
with noone in her hand.)

There are things that preach
on the glassblower's beach
to two-thousand-shells.
(Who once blew the birhtright bells.)
In hallowed lows who hid
the light leaks through the grid,
and soon shall slowly fleet
on shards of six low feet
and shallows dressed in glass
reflecting actions as
a fleeting, withered voice.
Who art thou', where part thou'
by choice?