Berlin

He was walking at night mixing himself with the shadows
Running blue veined caged tight fast past the flesh windows
And he was not expecting anything
Not the angel choir inside his head
Or the litmus test of doves
And there they were
And he felt the rolling fever hands of light upon him
Felt the beady eyes of the night upon his back
And everything he said turned into something else
Everything he said turned into something else

And he said, "What kind of beast am I?"
And he said, "Who brings the tablets down this mountain?"
And he said, "Is this where I live?"
And he said, "Ah, sometimes I feel so full."

And a voice answered saying
"You are an aerial hung up to the Divine
You are a beach for the waves of the world to crash on
You are the spilt wine...
You are the spilt wine at the table of the gods."

And through the wet streets of the city
Washed bloody with the warfare of the ghosts
There is a shining something
There is a shining something
And death is only one of its faces
Love is only one of its faces
And he said, "I will be a testament to this
I will be consumed in this
I will be a run of sparks around the coils of this labyrinth
I am the roar of the bees in summer
I am a winged victory
And this is my epiphany

I am a winged victory
This is my epiphany

I am a winged victory
And this is my epiphany."