Upon a snowy peak, in eastern Russia, sits Dmitri with his table of God,

Graying hairs and skylines, ink is splatter on the paper that Dmitri organized,

Only he can see the way it fits together,
like a puzzle like the coordinates of a map like the legend,
this god, this is God he sings inside his lonely office
this God,
this is Gods table,

Upon a snowy peak in eastern Russia sits a man predicting God and where he is,

Lucid dreams of heaven, only one correction made when he awakened from his sleep,

Only he can see the way it fits together,
like a puzzle like the coordinates of a map like the legend,
this god, this is God he screams inside his lonely coffin
this God,
this is Gods table,


Upon a snowy peak, in eastern Russia, sits Dmitri with his table of God