It was summer when they finally came, the law of force and line upon line of machine upon machine, back into the greenwood, closer to the heart of things we go - beneath the wires stretched against the sky, spitting out in desperation - stop the killing . . . The wind blows down from St George`s Hill through to Stanworth Woods, and to the East, on this grey and pallid dawn the lights from the rigs blinking out across the poisoned sea, a little group of ships floating out to meet the coming storm sailing on in desperation - stop the killing . . . Raised and bound upon the land, and the everlasting whispers in diamond through the trees, in the breath of Eden . . . Innocent still the faith we hold - our time will come . . . That which walks the corridors of power is a virus that mutates; immune to all resistance, and every turn of history . . . And all that`s left for us is marking crosses upon doors, and scrawling in the golden sand before each tide comes rolling in; screaming out in desperation - stop the killing . . . Holding on, and out, forever . . .
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