Black Butterflies

All murderers are punished unless they kill in large numbers and to the sound of trumpets. 　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　Voltaire An ancient story once been told and saved within a page for centuries, yet now it's bound to burn, we've set the stage: no trial as such - a single match and off you go, no strings attached Black butterflies – a paper ash appearing swiftly, in a flash - they're prowling; still prowling while scorching wind is howling Black butterflies are on my sleeve, these signs of guilt would never leave they're burning, still burning, ascending yet returning We've been created from above yet governed from below So how on earth we're better off - ALL RISE! - the less we know? A sudden turn but we're not concerned: as long as books are being burned Black butterflies – a paper ash appearing swiftly, in a flash - they're prowling; still prowling while scorching wind is howling Black butterflies are on my sleeve, these signs of guilt would never leave they're burning, still burning, ascending - returning Black butterflies are on my hands, this sort of madness never ends, not ever. Forever we'll bear this cross together