Tragedy’s Birth

The crippled oracle breathes his lungs like grit
His blackened hands, like maps of ungodly lands
Skin as leather, burnt by the sun
This world is not for him, this world is not for
You nor I

When the Gods were young the burden was less
It was not grief and it was not fear
Who cast the shadow upon our age?
Who has crippled the young and blinded their eyes?

He counts the hours, days and awful years
To when the children stare into the sun
The mountains crumble to the sea
And our civilisations turn to dust

They are turned to dust

So slumber watcher, till the spheres
Have turned ten and twenty thousand years
The crippled oracle breathes, his lungs like grit
This world is not for him, this world is not for
You nor I...