The Wheel
Caught in a whirlpool of rotting decay;
No sun to be seen on the horizon,
And the bringer's pipes are covered in rust,
Melting, distorting in a lupine grimace.
Is there an end? Or is there none?
What is this sound? Is it the insides of a purse jingling?
This is the creaking from the spokes of the Wheel,
Feeding on bodies and souls, rocks and trees;
It is the captain speaking.
The ship is boarded; but who is the fool,
To steer into nothingness?
And who is the tool,
To feed all the crew, while starving?
To sprawl, to dull and to grind
Are all of the prisoners taken,
And every little part of mankind
Is granted each own taste of breaking,
As the grip squeezes the bone,
The deeper we sail
Into the limits unknown.
What do the waters hold?
The snakes of future are merely their tails;
And when we're in the middle of a bite,
What happens?
The wheeling unveils.
The moment the freezing night
Reaches its darkest hour,
The Wheel is run into its own spoke,
Flying round
With an unlimited power:
It goes for the heads of those
Who let it spin,
And gives its final stretch,
Unleashing the war machine.
The crew hides in the cockpit,
While the ship is falling apart:
Turned into trenches, ashes,
And death
Are cities and meadows;
Omniscient stench
For no one to smell and cover the nose.
The world that fails itself
Spins back, and the picture's serene:
The sullen presence of rain, or the strength of wind,
Yet for no one to paint the scene.
This is what happens while we're asleep,
Under the weight of the common burden:
Alienation fuels the Wheel,
Keeping the warm dim under the curtain.
The dream must be sweet, unless the bed is melting,
And to break the circle,
Redirecting that heat,
The billions of hands and minds of ours should meet!
Otherwise,
Haven't we wanted to know how it feels
To burn on a pyre of sheaves,
And not in a bottle of flames?
◀ Go back
No sun to be seen on the horizon,
And the bringer's pipes are covered in rust,
Melting, distorting in a lupine grimace.
Is there an end? Or is there none?
What is this sound? Is it the insides of a purse jingling?
This is the creaking from the spokes of the Wheel,
Feeding on bodies and souls, rocks and trees;
It is the captain speaking.
The ship is boarded; but who is the fool,
To steer into nothingness?
And who is the tool,
To feed all the crew, while starving?
To sprawl, to dull and to grind
Are all of the prisoners taken,
And every little part of mankind
Is granted each own taste of breaking,
As the grip squeezes the bone,
The deeper we sail
Into the limits unknown.
What do the waters hold?
The snakes of future are merely their tails;
And when we're in the middle of a bite,
What happens?
The wheeling unveils.
The moment the freezing night
Reaches its darkest hour,
The Wheel is run into its own spoke,
Flying round
With an unlimited power:
It goes for the heads of those
Who let it spin,
And gives its final stretch,
Unleashing the war machine.
The crew hides in the cockpit,
While the ship is falling apart:
Turned into trenches, ashes,
And death
Are cities and meadows;
Omniscient stench
For no one to smell and cover the nose.
The world that fails itself
Spins back, and the picture's serene:
The sullen presence of rain, or the strength of wind,
Yet for no one to paint the scene.
This is what happens while we're asleep,
Under the weight of the common burden:
Alienation fuels the Wheel,
Keeping the warm dim under the curtain.
The dream must be sweet, unless the bed is melting,
And to break the circle,
Redirecting that heat,
The billions of hands and minds of ours should meet!
Otherwise,
Haven't we wanted to know how it feels
To burn on a pyre of sheaves,
And not in a bottle of flames?
2022, 2025