And it burns with the words that a thousand taciturns wish to speak,
their tongues turned and tied with foundations of lies,
Whilst the swampy stillness swallows the creeks of our governess,
the fondness fowled in the the trenches our subtext allows,
sheltered from the mortars, our faces pasted, murmuring.

Consciously we expound the wrongs and mutterings we stutter in sleep,
the pensionaires pushing the sutures that birthed us so lovingly.