Tick-tock, I hate your clock.
Ding-****, the dreadful throng,
bulbous and bland
just like your head.

Your head is white,
your clothes are white,
your hands are white,
your shoes are white,
but your house?
Your house is green.

Your clocks are green,
your tables are green,
your watches are green,
your drawers are green,
and your walls?
They are green too.

Even I am green.
My blood runs rust,
but clothes flow lime.
My shoes, my skirts,
my socks, my shirts?
All are green.
But then I am another clock.

A mother’s mourning
first now heard.
Sudden shrieking
tearing cloth and hair
ground beat, pounded,
rage building.
Do you hear it, do you see it?

In heated irons
corpse hangs
wrists burned
through flesh to bone
protruding arrow
pierces chest.
I know you see it, but do you hear it?

Break the bones, crush the souls.
Doctor’s orders, through and through.
Walk the times, turn the keys.
Hatred’s fire, grew and grew.
No respite, no delight.

King over men
Lugh Lamhfháda, my lord,
fill me with flame, great passion.
Give over Imbas.
Smelt me down, liquid ore,
Make me a blade, my lord.

Eyes, six-hundred, staring.
Thousand-armed, strong.
Resplendent and radiant,
the gods tower above men.
Yet men, meek and weak
tear down the illusion,
parting the fog
that gods can’t see.

And the Void comes,
A yawning mass
That sings sickly lies
-- or are they truths? --
Of the coming nothing
Which will pull you down
And never let go.

But the Light comes,
A resplendent sign
Of the Lord of All,
Skills and men,
Who sings of life,
Everlasting and resplendent,
And will never let go.