Sir Francis Bacon At The Net کے بول

Merciless nature, human and mother walk this land Each through the arm of the other Their tithe they count in millions In a land that loves its villains So calculating it parses a man Between the hand that held the dream And the sword being held by the hand Their golden frames hang gleaming Tangled bones of their crimes bleaching Their golden frames hang gleaming Bleaching bones of their crimes tangling There he stands a mere mist of a thing Waiting his turn to challenge the king He counts his time in centuries He lives on the smallest of mercies He counts his time in centuries As the map is unrolled the dagger comes out And that which was certain will now end in doubt Thank you sir francis bacon Another piece of advice not taken Thank you sir francis bacon Another piece of advice not taken