Ornaments in silent darkness,   the image of man now torn from its structure      The smell of need,   the dwarfed soul of man,   attuned only to flesh   suffering from frustration      Alien to our own spirits   We're naked even in death   The dawn is yet to come   to fill us with knowledge      Pulsating waves of colour,   bleeding off into the black   A whisper of red screams through the night   The architects and the flesh