The wind blows cold, from your dead God unpleased.
Sickly hands feeling ‘round, plucking the strings.
Breath of a shadow from one long deceased,
Pervading the children, and peering, sings.
He tells them a tale, lies of good fortune,
And tunes them to sing with His song.
God for the faithful ones, those in his cocoon,
Who strike and damn all who are “wrong”.
He uses the children, takes them for masks,
Donning their innocence, fooling you all.
Sitting above you, in reverence he basks,
Raising your young ones to bid as his thralls.
And they wrote down his tales, they spread the word,
Innocent, ignorant that His song had been blurred.