The Cruelest Month

Men of blood, we are the fruit of lust, filled with sin, death and despair. burning straw, this is a harrowing month; our dreams the smoke that fills air. there's blood on my hands. i can't clean them. there's blood. son of man, i give these words to eat, bitter wine for you to drink. four months full the rain leaves nothing left, but the roots go deeper than you think. there's blood on my hands. i can't clean them. there's blood. a kiss, please don't forget the signs i've shown. a heel to bruise your head, the last i hope. we're to blame for all the marks on you