The texture of the soul is a liquid that casts a vermilion 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
It's hymn resonates from tree to tree, through every sullen bough it sings

These boughs were said to be lost
Torn, unearthed and broken

Earth to flesh, flesh to wood
Cast these limbs into the water
Flesh to wood, wood to stone
Cast this stone into the water