A plague of nostalgia for a fictive past,
Not merely dead, never born,
is the most desperate form of escapism.
Accident of birth, the pride of the insipid.
Blood still runs, rose-tinted,
Spilling on the red rock
In starvation and waste
In fanfares
and marches
and broad arching melody.
Wastelands ruled by ruined kings.
Curses never lifted.
Not merely dead, never born,
is the most desperate form of escapism.
Accident of birth, the pride of the insipid.
Blood still runs, rose-tinted,
Spilling on the red rock
In starvation and waste
In fanfares
and marches
and broad arching melody.
Wastelands ruled by ruined kings.
Curses never lifted.