VEGANGELICA

Hello, people,

Following Stone Birds' suggestion of writing a song based on a picture, I chose his photo of the windmills at sunrise or sunset under a cloudy sky. This is the scene described at the end of "Windmill" below (such a creative title, I know). As you will see, once again my lyrics are completely literal...in other words, I am using no metaphors at all, unless one counts the cliche, "rearing its head," as a metaphor, which I don't.

One detail that may help in following the narrative of the song is that a thrush is a type of songbird who, like most songbirds, navigates during its nighttime migration by using primarily the position of stars.

The "Music Rating System" rating for "Windmill" is DD for Death and Destruction. (My warning system is improving.)

“Windmill” by Erica

You fly through the air. You’re a bird on the wing,
a thrush on migration, returning in spring,
when something before you is rearing its head
and soon it will strike you and you will be dead,

for it’s going round, blade after blade,
too fast to see and to evade.
No time to shriek. No time to call.
Your body slashed, you start to fall.

You’re tumbling, descending. You couldn’t prepare
for the knives still invisibly slicing the air.
You evolved to see life and your eyesight was keen
but at night there was no way to see this machine

as the blades are going round and round
you’re lying, dying, on the ground,
your final moments agony
so we have electricity.

Your bones have been crushed and you’re thrashing in vain
like the thousands of other birds who have been slain
by the urge of insatiable humans for power,
who measure your value in kilowatt hour

for they turn their pleasure into pain
you suffer while they just see gain.
At least you only killed in need
while they’re epitomizing greed.

The mill goes round, blade after blade,
too fast to see and to evade,
your final moments agony
so we can watch big screen TV.

(Musical interlude)

The sun is now rising. You look in the sky
as the blood mats your feathers. You’re starting to die.
Through the clouds you see stars that were guiding your way
and you want to fly on, but they’re fading to gray...

And the blades are going round and round.
You’re lying, trembling, on the ground,
distorted, mangled, as you are
for someone’s electric guitar.

We turn our pleasure into pain
you suffer, while we just see gain.
At least you only killed in need
while we’re epitomizing greed.

The blades are going round and round.
You’re lying, dead, upon the ground,
deprived of the one life you get
so we can surf the Internet.

The blades are going round and round.
Your seeping body stains the ground,
your final moments agony
so we have electricity.

(vocals fade...)

The blades are going round and round.
You’re lying, gutted, on the ground,
distorted, broken, as you are
for someone’s electric guitar.

They’re going round, blade after blade,
too fast to see and to evade,
your life ending in agony
so we can watch big screen TV.