| Rush faster on the one-way lane
|
| the answers so silent
|
| Rusty gods in their machine-mind armours
|
| grind our souls in the millstone of time
|
| the «deathbed harvest"is a dead man’s banquet
|
| of mold ridden bread and black, poisoned wine
|
| And we go… our step so silent
|
| And we go… our blooded trace
|
| the Jester Race
|
| Calling our 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 the 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
|
| the fumes from her body give chase
|
| as the strong of blind men savour the scent,
|
| dream-dead from Prosaic and hate
|
| -epilogue-
|
| «Sunwind strokes the ElectroHeart,
|
| ignition roars through the corridors,
|
| stream launching the binary vessels»
|
| Vanities in extreme formations
|
| ride into tomorrow’s rigid great face
|
| The Machinery outlives the futile scripts
|
| of our dying jester race |