We are but slaves to the blood that feeds us,
So fragile, yet so proud...
Pour bastards, not for a moment think
That beating hearts and breath are at our will;

We're visitors in our body
And willingly we slaughter all its worth
For one more breath of time and sorrow,
To forth delay returning to our shell.

An empty place of solid fibers
And blood-like taste addicts us all
To such a God-like word called living,
Yet living is the only gait
That feeds our entity with grief;

For one to rise and dwell in purpose,
Others must meet their fall and root
Like trees in dark, deserted gardens
And rot in wooden shells as to oblige,
The decay of our host.