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Come, wash your wounds. Rest your bleeding feet. Though you've broken every promise, closed every door, wasted every gift, come take what you can. Wash your wounds with salt and sand. No matter how clean you are, you'll never be clean enough. Your feet pollute the ground. Your breath poisons the air. Your body's best described with words better left unsaid. You're more than half dead. No, you can never be clean enough - but still, come wash your wounds in this stream, where as a child you would sit and dream, though dreams aren't strong enough. Your day has come and gone. Stand in the circle, naked to the waist, locked in your own embrace, wallowing in filth. Remain under the water till it once again runs clear, and takes you far from here. At your approach, the earth would shift. Leaves scatter to the sky. Grass and flowers die. I praise your name with a million voices, raised in a song of shame, to keep the dead in the ground, your body on the ground, your face held to the ground, while I hammer the nail through. Then later, I'll wash your wounds with salt and sand. Oh, how you lay there, king of birds and stones. Oh, how you lay there, graceless and cold, a shell, a piece of meat. You stabbed the sacred heart. You bit the sacred hand. You'll die in your own shit, but first you'll live in pain. No matter how you wash, you'll never be clean again.