Distill My Soul
The sylphs of mountain high give voice to solar winds.
by David Lacey
The sirens of the sea - The sailors death she sings.
Lament, lament now that the shadow of the sun has cast faith and indistinct upon the hope of salvation.
Can you hear them still?
Nothing to salvage is there left drifting in the sway.
Be still my head
Distill my soul
Take me half
And make me whole.
A multitude of madness
Generations lost to sadness
Begging for a better life.
They would lock me away for seeing all I have seen
They would praise me for the things I could have been.