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They came for the old man in the silence

In his house up there on the lonely hill

They left him carved up and crucified to the barn

His blood congealed like the wax of forgotten prayers

Nothing was found stolen

May be that the old man had nothing to steal

May be that they were incarnate demons

And they came to collect his sins

Or maybe it was only the hill

Now even lonelier than before

That vast empty space

Where no one could hear him scream