The crow approaches
Lands on the shoulder of the one who writes
Comes back to peck his neck
The veins come out of the flesh
The blood spreads across the page
He writes his last lines and falls asleep
November and his winter coat
Dark lapels
White shirt like the snow
Black cuffs
Glides over the city
Clings to the walls, destroys the streets
The horn spears ac'r'es
Dive into the eyes and hearts of brokers
Children flee into the neighborhood streets
Cars leave the road, swallowed by the sea
The dead rils of winter
The photographers, the open barrels
The gunpowder and the blinding flashes
Suffocated by the smoke
br/>The ashes of the factories
Torn account books
Sem's like crumbs to take them out
From the tunnels, far from the walls of the old city
Before being buried under the new filth.
The crow gets tired
The crows multiply
The sky blackens with each new corpse
The fields ignite
Hysteria drives them from the cities to the caves
And the darkened hills
To the highlands
To the highlands
Towards the high refuges
Towards the high refuges
Towards the high plains
Towards the high plains
Towards the hills
Towards the hills
Towards the high lands
br/>Vers le hautes terre
The raven flies down to the writer's desk
Landing on his shoulder, pecking at his neck
Veins popping out, spilling on the page
Makes a little note, falls to sleep
November's coat with black lapels
Dressed in a snow white shirt, ready for the grave
Prepares to flee from the city's gates
Tear down the walls ripping up the streets
Spearheaded horns stick into the hearts
Of the ticker tape market trades, watch them all crash
While the children flee from the suburb streets
The cars veer off the road , swallowed by the sea
And the writer's peril, the photographers
The open dusty barrels
Gun powder and white lightning
Choking on the fumes, buried 'neath the waste
Receipts from the factories torn up in haste
Used as breadcrumbs to lead them away
Out through the tunnels while the city crumbles and breaks
The raven grows weary
The raven grows in numbers
Sky darkens with each kill
Corn fields burn, break on the farmers' heads
For the high country, for the high country
Hide in some hills
Deep dark caves
Return to the caverns
Rebar skeletons
Spell twisted, cryptic words

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