That your friends hid beneath the same flag as your foes
was a blessing to fire at will
and out of the trenches a new day arose
there’s strength in these broken arms still

so burn all the poems and rip up the books
the words will white out as you sing
to carry the weight of the lives that you took
because life was a beautiful thing

now I cannot recall mountains risen to fall
one day we must awake from this sleep

what’s left of the day will [bad word] down as rain

the weaver’s hands tell me how your mouth has spun
all the promises left to fulfil
but you’ve chosen your weapon, the duel is on
and there’s [bad word] in unspoken words still

what’s left of the day will [bad word] down as rain
and though they all look the same, every drop has its number and name
what’s left of your plans will all drown to the sound of their hands
this might be your last chance

what’s left of the day will [bad word] down as rain