Rush faster on the one-way lane
|
the answers so silent
|
|
Rusty gods in their machine-minds armours
|
grind our souls in the millstone of time
|
the "deathbed harvest" is dead man's banquet
|
of mould ridden bread and black, poisoned wine
|
|
And we go..our steps so silent
|
And we go..our blooded trace;
|
The Jester Race
|
|
Calling out to the gathered masses;
|
their answers so silent
|
|
And we go..
|
|
Embracing the tools of the neo-wolf age
|
that speak of silence and silence alone
|
|
Offering the tokens, the reliced idols
|
to the heirs of the newly raped ground
|
inferior even to the transparent winds
|
lesser in motion and sound
|
|
And we go..
|
|
There is no trace of me
|
in their altered blueprints of life
|
|
Gaia impaled on their horns and lances
|
to fumes from her body give case
|
as the throng of blind mind savour the scent,
|
dream-dead from prosaic and hate
|
|
Sunwind strokes the electroheart,
|
ignition roars through the corridors,
|
stream launching the binary vessels
|
|
Vanities in extreme formations
|
ride into tormorrow's rigid great face
|
The machinery outlives the futile scripts
|
of our dying jester race
|
|
-----------------
|
The Jester Race
|
In Flames |