In every word there is a sign.
In every leaf there is a fall.
In every song there is a cry.
In every move there is control.
Control of substance or the will.
Cry of condemned or victor'd ones.
Fall of the tribe of entered sin.
Sign of the times of brut Les’trigons
Will I submit to charge of race,
Once colour blue is up and high,
Sin that's obstructed by Thine sheen,
Les’trigons taught to feast on rye?
Race, human race, bloom out of blush.
High, how high, you deem you go?
Sheen, sheen of day night turns to ash.
Rye, rye is to grow, grow…