| Where cold winds blow I was layed to rest
|
| I can not reach my rusty weapons;
|
| The blood and sword that guided my path
|
| For they drowned in the sands of wisdom
|
| I was, indeed, a king of the flesh
|
| My blackened edges; |
| still they were sharp
|
| Honoured by the carnal herdes
|
| But asketh thou: closed are the gates?
|
| My mind cut my winged weapons
|
| The teeth that was my pride
|
| And from the forest all would hear:
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| «Wisdom opens the gate for the king»
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| My weapons sighted — my tears they tasted
|
| Summon my warriors — to the land of desire
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| To the domain of hate — where cold winds blew
|
| For lust for hell — we rode with the north wind
|
| Only I could accomplish a fucken self-deceit
|
| There are only two paths — the mind or the sword
|
| And the mind was open like the sights in a dream
|
| But the sword was like a stone around my neck
|
| I entered the soul of the snake
|
| And slept with the armageddish whore
|
| But without my throne and my weapons;
|
| Where cold winds blow became my grave |