Black is the past you can\'t retract
and black is the path of a lifelong track,
and white is the light that\'s sometimes darker than night,
and black are your bones because of the blight,
the curse that won\'t let go no matter the
fight.
to live as the wrong and never the right
when wrong is a world that is clothed in white.
Beware of the place with the tree of light,
for red is the fruit on the tree this night!
(1893)
It was 1893 and the path had been long. 18, well, it\'s of the 9, and 3 is too. It was time to cross the line and enter into what can only be described as destiny. And there ahead lies the tree
at the entrance
to the town
of Mulberry.
The child beneath the tree reminded me of me, of who I used to be - oblivious of the rope above. So there they were; the child, the tracks and the tree. There were three, and therefore \'Of The Nine\' - my trekk here was meant to be.
The thing is, this world that so likes to be blinded by its own lack of humility, it has never seen me coming - one who is of duality. I come with the oil of the water-snake, a wine of forgotten lies. I come from the soils of a dark dark place that I never left behind.
I come to remind
those who live in the whitened blight
of who they really are.
It helps some people,
but they are the few
that awaken,
that can see.
As I cross the line, I enter the world of Grady, or in old Gaelic, O\' Gra\'daigh, \"The Illustrious\", \"The Nobile\", \"The Renowned\", for he too is Of The Nine. He guides the town on how it should be. And for those who don\'t agree, well, there is the tree.
The town admitted me,
welcomed me,
accommodated me,
but I soon revealed the wine, the oil, the lies (at least to them) that all was not white, that all you had to do was drink the wine and cross the line, to see that your \'white\' is enwrapped with blight and tracks that lead into night.
I could feel the heat in Grady\'s town. It was wearing me down. I heard the six o\'clock bell and felt the spell of the 18, the 9, the 3. This is where it would be and from here all would be a dream...
(Dream Tree)
The tree of white on this hellish night
knows his time has run short.
The weight of hung souls that come from the blight
they pull, give lean, distort
a tree of white
once upright
in a town of light
The child beneath,
one of the three,
he smiles in glee
a red smile
for the tree has provided generously.
Time has weighed and will no more support.
The child is free to climb branches of another tree
in his eternal quest for mulberries.
The tracks and the child will soon be two,
binary.
For two are primary, and need no intermediary.
They are absolute adversaries.
Tracks of black.
A child of white,
full of the blood of the mulberry tree.
The next day, a gray day, O\' Gra\'daigh took me to the tree. He took me there to die, to blur the line, the one based on a lie drawn through the sands and eons of time.
A sigh.
A sign.
A saddle on a mule on a day running out of time.
I was to be their fool before the coming of the Mulberry night. Me, a tool to ply the unwary, the ordinary from thoughts of boarding the train, from knowing that once you leave, there is only black and white. And what he could not see, O\' Gra\'daigh, on what would be the ninth day of February in the year 1893 is that I was not of the nine, not even of the three. I was a purveyor of duality.
(The Ceremony)
And So the spectacle began, and this is what I said:
\"You\'ve brought me to the hanging tree. A tree ever reaching for me, grasping for me, for all eternity. A child of this broken world. You should have gagged me, hid me from your children, from your wives - this world I see before me, one so starkly white. Well, you do not impress me when I cross your rigid lines for I know that you are of the blight! And this tree,
so astounding,
glowing in the night
won\'t allow you to see that I too, though I come from the darkness, do live under the light, and I am just like you oh people of the night, though you now clothe yourselves in bloodless white, but that is a lie! So let this tree full of mulberries, full of all those who hung, who died just to maintain your \"bloodless\" lie, let it no longer glow, let it no longer be your beacon of the night.\"
Lightning strikes
A tree of white
A child flees
A sudden flight
The falling of Mulberry
Both town and tree
O\' Gra\'daigh
His white, ever so white, lie
That you cannot leave
The falling of night
The tracks that lead
Out into the blight
Into a spinning world
The sound of a train
That leads into
Eternity
Black is the past you can\'t retract
and black is the path of a lifelong track,
and white is the light that\'s sometimes darker than night,
and black are your bones because of the blight,
the curse that won\'t let go no matter the fight.
To live as the wrong and never the right
when wrong is a world that is clothed in white.
Beware of the place with the tree of light,
for red is the fruit on the tree this night!