| «From the vaults and through the rites
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| To descend into the light»
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| A procession drags forth with the strength of six
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| Escorting a coffin down to its abyss
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| By evenfall, the sound that silence yields
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| An autumnal necrology faintly whispered by funereal draughts
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| Blessings, priests and prayers
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| Nothing more than just pleasantries for living
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| Beyond death we thrust, onwards…
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| …To the only lord, the pantheon face
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| Whose lust and grace only dead may portray
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| Rise… from the vestibules of nothingness
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| Rise… past where mortal eyes see only death
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| For when the blood and body sleep…
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| Dawns the hour of the true awakening
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| When the astral urge defeats the oaken embrace of the coffin
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| «From the vaults and through the rites
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| To descend into the light of which is unborn
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| Yet which shall be born again»
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| Rise to descend…
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| Through absence of time and space
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| Where darkness prevails — world without end
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| Rise to descend from the dominance of kings
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| The lies of your heart and the power of your limbs
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| Rites of descent… Rise, rise…
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| As your blood dreams
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| Oh, the luminance revealed by the blackest deep
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| «All I own, all my soul
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| To the only lord; |
| my path winds below» |