Harvest (gearsoftheapparatus)

I'll walk to the depths of the deepest black forest where the people are a many and their hands are all empty. Where the pellets of poison are flooding their waters, where the home in the valley meets the damp dirty prison, and the executioner's face is always well hidden. Where hunger is ugly, where souls are forgotten, where black is the color, where none is the number. And I'll tell and speak it and think it and breathe it and reflect from the mountain so all souls can see it. And I'll stand on the ocean until I start sinking, but I'll know my song well before I start singing.