There will be many, many, many church bells, I can promise you that much. However, without your eruption, the alcove is filled with crude chirps, Just as without the breeze, my doorstep is home to dead birds. Everything I find, and all of the places that dissolved under my watch, All of the men that bore their limbs into the roads, I told them it was going to take this long.
don't ask me about meeting your maker; trust me, he doesn't want to see you right now.