A Band Of Buriers Stuffing A Chest With Twigs ( Live)

If you like it, share A Band Of Buriers thank you kindly. A feather held aloft in your extended arm An old barracks graffitied and crumbling Green, brown, red in a skin like flung paint on a window Sleeping giants of industry your time to stir has been and gone Slake my wandering interest with dross Is the bird alone Is the veil a prop in the lonesome man s tragedy