At the Gates
Remember the night we crossed Canterbury Gate?
Betrayal bought our way in–us little band of Goths.
The rhetoric is dangerous, I know, but descriptive
of how it felt. The hazard it imagined. That sense
of something turning, of history, of the music falling
from high above. A patient mess fuelled by courage,
we barely knew each other, not then anyway,
yet–oh well. Everything would be ending soon enough.
We shivered in the cold, waiting, and forgot what we were.
All our hopes hinged upon on this one, fantastic moment.
This was Rome, and Rome would be ours, and tonight
we would dance in Rome. Mock-heroes, after all, never
know about the truth. Not before the turn to morning.
Remember the night we crossed Canterbury Gate?
Betrayal bought our way in–us little band of Goths.
The rhetoric is dangerous, I know, but descriptive
of how it felt. The hazard it imagined. That sense
of something turning, of history, of the music falling
from high above. A patient mess fuelled by courage,
we barely knew each other, not then anyway,
yet–oh well. Everything would be ending soon enough.
We shivered in the cold, waiting, and forgot what we were.
All our hopes hinged upon on this one, fantastic moment.
This was Rome, and Rome would be ours, and tonight
we would dance in Rome. Mock-heroes, after all, never
know about the truth. Not before the turn to morning.
