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The Path of the Sparrow and the Pine Under a leaden sky that knows no forgetting, A rider advances with a soul torn in two. No glory he seeks, nor gold for the betting, Just the end of a dance that the devil once drew.
The sun is an eye that burns through the sin, In the lands of the dust where the law has no name. With iron at his hip and blood on his skin, Horse and man wander, flickering like flame.
"I am walking straight to hell, without asking for the way," Whispers the wind, like a funeral bell, Over the embers where my heart used to stay.
I found on the trail a cross made of briar, Two branches bound tight with thirst and with dread. It holds no cathedral, no choir, no fire, Only the silence of the ghosts I once led.
And perched on the wood, a bird small and grey, Watches me deeply, without any fear. Is it an angel in this wasteland of clay? Or a final warning that the reckoning is near?
I halt by the timber that time has worn thin, The shadow projects the depth of my fall. If the bird does not fly from the weight of my sin, Perhaps there is mercy, in spite of it all.
Redemption ainβt water, itβs fire that clears, Itβs dropping the spurs and the hate in my chest. Though the road to the pit is clouded with fears, This cross made of sticks offers a moment of rest.
I ask not for directions, the path has been set, But the sparrow remains, guarding whatβs true. In this wild, bitter land of blood and of sweat, Before the red dust, I am born anew.
