49 Burning Condors 'Seventh Hymnal' out now.

Seven came before, and seven remain – each the individual cry of a moor creature. Each the rapture from the mouth of a lost, salting soul. Each the stricken chord of a swamp thing’s eulogy. Each a plague.

First, the beautiful bodies flow down the bayou (1)
Passing by the grieving mothers and their petulant king (2)
A hungry, decrepit willow tree seizes at the memories of the corpses as they pass, swallowing their lives’ echos (3)
The sirens with their red, leaking tales tie their voices around the throats of all the remaining men who seek them out with ardor in their eyes – pulling them into their salty, tidal bosoms (4)
The Devil watches with keen eyes and a taunting tongue and stuffs our mouths with mud (5)
Murder is whispered on the breeze, and children listen with bright eyes to the old wise women on the hill (6)
Before finally, our seventh, our goddess, glittering with gold and dripping with honey, covers us with her branches, lovingly, and rains her fury down upon us. And we drink from her tears for we are the Daughters of the Sky (7)

Hear our Seventh Hymnal.