The silent hill has no resting place anymore
It is as loud and crowded as that other
The one where the noises overshadow the quiet places of rest
But on the hill there’s no resting
None more for the wicked
Than for the good
It is a place of torment
Where are heard even exquisite laments
The dead, the good days gone, and those in disrepair
There the shout of heroes lost to the turning of ages
Echo past the tormenting crackle of mountains
Prepping carefully laid plans in their final stage
There are no heroes there anymore
Just masqueraders weaving lore
They wear lofty capes and clothes of white
Till time comes
And the stains of desire washes purity undone
Revealing allegories of light that shone
Once, long ago to alleviate the stains of a score
But that was another mask absconded
Through the forked tongue of fables
With skillfully crafted plots and effigies
That quietly opened chasms
Gurgling names of children, men, and women not yet born
All toiling in their time to get back to the silent hill
To toil at madness and remain there still
On the silent hill is a road
Skillfully forged by the same old
Arms that wrote of a resting place on the hill
Dotted with temples with gleaming white walls
Displaying what would once pass for innocence
With wagging tales as if to Wolf
On the land to the brink of its borders
They wish to spill blood on the silent hill
They wish to spill blood on the silent hill
