On the horizon,
I can see,
The me of me/s,
Yet to be,
Burning bright,
With angry promise:
That tomorrow carries,
A foreign and distant air,
In which Truth is erased,
And left unreplaced.
How we'll learn to love the cornucopia machines
On the horizon,
I can see,
The me of me/s,
Yet to be,
Burning bright,
With angry promise:
That tomorrow carries,
A foreign and distant air,
In which Truth is erased,
And left unreplaced.