Из альбома: Tales From the Realm of the Queen of Pentacles
He stood upon the last
Bastions of the place
Looked out on the ruins
With thunder in his face
An introverted spectacle
In the flowers on the rocks
The daisies on the ramparts
Blowing free
His heart was divided
Clouds gathered in the sky
The belfry made of wood and steel
Was silenced in it’s cry
Something must have happened
What, he wouldn’t say
But shown within
The wider lens of history
His mission the transmission
Of technology
One cannon trained upon the church
This one caught his eye
“to keep the bishop in his place”
He muttered with a sigh
His mood was melancholy
His attitude severe
His inner burden
Weighed upon him mightily
A bird as never seen in books
Flew in overhead
A kind of dove it might have been
But not a sound was said
All the ancient knowledge lay
In pieces on the ground
The cause of all his suffering
Was not for love of me.
His mission the transmission
Of technology