Saint Yersinia

Walking forth,
spreading her gift of misery
Withered eyes that still see

Poor or noble,
young or elderly
All receive equally

She has no pilgrims
No voices sing her hymns
Man is the victim
A chalice filled to the brim

Shadows gather and a
baneful shape does appear
Time has come, she is here

She has no pilgrims
No voices sing her hymns
Man is the victim
A chalice filled to the brim

“Rich men, trust not in wealth,
Gold cannot buy you health;
Physic himself must-fade.
All things to end are made,
The plague full swift goes by;
I am sick, I must die.”

She has no pilgrims
No voices sing her hymns
Man is the victim
A chalice filled to the brim

She has no pilgrims
No voices sing her hymns
Man is the victim
A chalice filled to the brim

She is fading away
Soon there dawns a new day
A new age, oh so pale
Will arrive

All will carry the weight
Through Yersinia’s gate
So alone and so frail
So alive