The Snare of the Fowler - Panzerfaust

Man — like earth — both flower and decay

Tyrants and men of ideals feign the black-eyed children.

Till plight and

injustice wakes this earth, to galvanize them to sacrifice and abnegation;

ripe are the fools and the damned who have longed for a promised land.

In the heap of temptations, hope would mark the ruins

«The tree of knowledge is not that of life.»

And so he grinds his own hands

Where there was never justice for all

There is a stain of perspective

In those expiring eyes

When he mines his own helm

And serves for the greater glory

arm the angels

Bedevilled by our lesser judgment

And another man will die;

It is practically what he is here for

And they will fly their flags at half mast

As if this would imply justice

Never pitied, they will make this mistake again, and again — the damned deny

the ages, and the greatest of ironies:

Our enlightenment would rise;

And with it, the vileness of man

«The tree of knowledge is not that of life.»

And so he grinds his own hands

Where there was never justice for all

There is a stain of perspective

In those expiring eyes

When he mines his own helm

And dies for the greater glory

It is seldom the days in the dark

When he defines his own hell

But in the violent wake of the wise

Where the rabid dog dies

Taring at the roots, where the rats beckon asunder

«Surely he shall deliver thee from the snare of the fowler;

and the noisome

pestilence.»

But these men are left disturbed, yet again

It is seldom the days in the dark

When he defines his own hell

But in the rotted wake of the light

Where the parasite dies

There is no redemption arc in the records of eternal truths.

Just an endless

sequence of cross-currents to the terminus of all paradises lost