Chasing time that's buried in rank
And lodged and paused
And held at arm's length
With the season comes the father's line
With the son comes the fall
A blank portrait, a son believed
A sun was led and watch, weathered
For the absence of light
How to measure where the years have brought you
And speak to decide
Black from south
You were taken away
Dropped and mistrusted
Burned in the sun
Push and release
compositores: Altar of Plagues
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