| The texture of the soul is a liquid |
| That casts a vermillion flood. |
| From a wound carved as an oath; |
| It fills the river bank a sanguine fog. |
| These arms were meant to be lost! |
| Hacked, severed and forgotten. |
| The texture of time is a whisper |
| That echoes across the flood. |
| Its hymn resonates from tree to tree, |
| Through every sullen bough it sings. |
| These boughs were said to be lost! |
| Torn, unearthed and broken. |
| Fear. |
| Earth to flesh, flesh to wood, |
| Cast these limbs into the water. |
| Flesh to wood, wood to stone, |
| Cast this stone into the water. |