Ashenspire - Fever Sheds текст песни

A man stare’s into fetid gutters and leering Meriden stares back;
what cleanses is beyond him
What cures? Far above him
A pantheon of pestilence; paupers enshrined in Fever Sheds
From holy typhus' hands — as lowly drudge of noxious seeds to sow,
a consecration of inflammation from callous soil did grow
As blighted walls for gangrenous minds, for rusting spirits and fever dreams;
opiate madness and sulphurous haze; all cathedrals to quarantine,
naught but abattoirs for screaming lunatics with blessed brimstone in their
lungs
All that is dissolute and loathsome becomes his city; a byword for intractable
human misery
And as they lead him through the gauntlet, the spires are reaching high,
playing arms of Atlas
Belching forth their cancerous mire, poverty’s sores weep into these gaping
mouths; the gaping mouths of child and gutter-dweller
This is how a nation dies; mile by God-forsaken mile, like seeds upon the
callous soil, mile by barren mile
Gas lights with tired eyes, their glare as perdition’s outer circles,
rest upon him — the conspirator — in machinations with Merihem
Yet, are his maladies to be counted amongst his blessings? His skin rots and
falls from his bones
In driving rain, from bridges o’er noisome waters hanging, he carves his words,
in anguished rage, on the pillars of the golden ribcage
Withering beast under dolorous sky, with gaunt, stooped wretch plunging harpoon
into the eye, saying: «All greatness firm in the storm»