we float like Pythagoras
when he plucked his first string,
like Damocles looking up
wishing gravity to sing.
we float like Prometheus
molotov cocktail ablaze,
like Theseus throwing yarn
in his eternal island maze.
but it's time to burn the string,
and to illuminate the cave,
tune the string above the sword
to resonate among the brave
to tear the horns from the beast
and paint our petroglyphs in red,
firebomb the blacksmith's forge,
defy the blade above our heads
to sink the island, let it drown,
and hold the fire above the flood,
we'll cut the string and sing the note
and then we'll clean the sword of blood.
