In noble name and blood they choose to trust,
and so for our beliefs we were abhorred.
We are but shadows. We are but dust.

We left to shrieks of 'treachery' and 'lust'
and blasting spells; we let them carve the sores
in noble name and blood. They choose to trust

that silver tarnishes to green; it does not rust
but blackens, while bronze is verdigris. No more!
We are not shadows! We are not dust!

We are ourselves! We found that we must
follow the truths we suffered for.
In noble name and blood they choose to trust

and thusly they believe. And so they thrust
Black children from the nest - a score
of their own shadows. We are the dust

left in the manse's empty rooms, the dust
that lies untouchable - by our own mothers! For
in noble name and blood they chose to trust.
We are still just shadows, but they are the dust.