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In a little dirt church at the end of the world stands the ikon of an unrecognized saint.
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They have a saying in Russia: Live in Voronezh, work in Samara, die in Tyumen. In honour of Saint Rose, born on the banks of the Voronezh, fed the hungry and the poor of Samara, torn apart by wolves in Tyumen on the exact date that she had herself predict
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She continues to drag the holy words Of her sacred scroll, to the ends of time A never-ending expedition with Saints of Hope The intention of uncovering truth In lies masked with pretty little ribbons The Mass of false segregation and …
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