These Days of Gogmagog

 

I have little, and will lose more
in these days of Gogmagog, 
when the air is thick 
with smoke and purple light,
and the blind musicians 
play after midnight.
Still those who can sing must sing. 

Stretch out your icy hand 
and touch, and touch my face. 
Fire, 
I'm on fire,
light a candle
the sparks fly higher
and shadows tremble on the wall. 

First we dance the mad dance
and then, then comes the death. 
We're slaughtered and martyred, 
dressed in a shroud, 
we're calling 
your name out loud. 
Protect us, Lord to see you soon.