The texture of the soul is a liquid, That casts a vermillion flood. From a wound carved as an oath, It fills the river bank a sanguine fog. These arms were meant to be lost, Hacked, severed and forgotten. The texture of time is a whisper, That echoes across the flood. Its hymn resonates from tree to tree, Through every sullen bough it sings. These boughs were said to be lost, Torn, unearthed and broken. ♪ Earth to flesh, flesh to wood, Cast these limbs into the water. Flesh to wood, wood to stone, Cast this stone into the water.