All your brambles, all your creeping vines
All of the trash that people leave behind
All your fine, fine columns poking up through the pond scum
We will have uses for these things when we come
Cracks in the marble you hauled in from the quarry
These will be seen by all in all their glory
Long hidden shadows of the places they came from
We will bring memories of these things when we come
All your abandoned things
Once fine vestments, statues with wings
They have their uses, every one
Let me slither across them in the sun
Pale imitations that you brought back from afar
We will show them to you as they are
Wind through the ruins, high and lonesome
We will have uses for these things when we come
