Hall of Mirrors Tumbling

Suspicions ripple from a disturbing babbling spring
Cries fume up from the green blood of slashed grasslands
Threatening thuds evoke mass exile
We trample each other in the crossbreed
It's a bullrush to the bottom of the canyon
Forged by pressing press pressures
and mad monetizing monopolies
In the dark, no one can see the sunlight
No one but the moon
Let us look skyward
Find safe passage before our fading lamp goes out
It's time to hit the caves and draw on the oil you've stored
for such a time as this
Have you?