In silence we mourn,
for it is in darkness we awake ,
and peek through holes as the daylight appears ,
in the light of the gate ,
that  snuffs out the wick in the march of the years .

Then slowly and quiet.y our coffins await to be drawn out in trains ,
out of the Nectropolices gate.

For as the bush fires burn ,
and scorch the land ,
and the war Lords gather to map out their plans .
For even if the Netropolics  train is running late ,
and we play hopscotch by the stations gate ,
but it’s to late the carriages move ever on .

But the preacher waits there is a cure ,
and the trains wagons will stop im. Sure .

So tell the sick Christ’s work is done ,
the cross ,
new life in Gods only son .
There  is a way past Brookwood crem,
and deaths train is not the end at all ,
for them .