| Held by winter’s chokehold fast
|
| Fixed in anxiety’s firm grip
|
| Frost that burn the arteries
|
| Underneath the heavy clouds
|
| The lifted sword, the broken shield
|
| The hand that drew the final word
|
| From the frozen mouth of Arkhangelsk
|
| Let them go, let them burn the world to cinders
|
| And let their heads hang down
|
| Falling through the tungsten skies
|
| On the burning grounds of Arkhangelsk
|
| To the eye of judgement now
|
| One will stand in the time of the end
|
| Sun to stone, air to fire
|
| All to nothing and nothing to nil
|
| They gather, drowned to the sounds
|
| Of the grinding wheels of Arkhangelsk
|
| With one word, one movement in the fabric
|
| Everything dies
|
| The storm that sweeps the world away
|
| From the frozen plains of Arkhangelsk
|
| Inherit from the morning star
|
| What others brought and the land forgot
|
| Soaring through van allen belts
|
| Through blazing stars, through dying suns
|
| Collide not now, but carry us
|
| Through the burning air of Arkhangelsk |