Ride we now upon this narrow pavement
which winds between the joyous and the dead,
which claps its fists in warning drums of thunder
like monuments that shake their stony heads.
A warning cry, a shrill black song of fear
flamed from the road when our hearts realized
the hidden knowledge ringing in our ears:
"Couldst thou prescribe a solvent for mine eyes?"
Your hands so pale that grip the steering wheel
are shedding innocence and dripping blood.
Agape, the charred bystanders watch you heal,
as clean gore cleanses smudged. Redeeming flood!
Above the road's dull roar our voice we'll raise
and drown out opposition to our praise.
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