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Down the morning comes and burns the ground

Shrunken heads are piled to the sky

Kneeling over signs I make no sound

Hallowed oracle of spirits die

Victims of the sign in steel engraved

Whispered prayers forgotten when they fall

Battered by the wind I'm still enslaved

Punctured vein of life has freed them all

Vines in the trees, open eyes in the air

Tribes of the hills in despair

Scaling the breeze over fires bright and bare

Spines break with ease everywhere

Eye of the night scratching fables across

The sweat and the soil of the land

Igneous block pounding blood into stone

Voices that issue the sand