Lyrics The Snare of the Fowler - Panzerfaust

The Snare of the Fowler

Man — like earth — both flower and decay
Tyrants and men of ideals feign the black-eyed children.
Till plight and
injustice wakes this earth, to galvanize them to sacrifice and abnegation;
ripe are the fools and the damned who have longed for a promised land.
In the heap of temptations, hope would mark the ruins
«The tree of knowledge is not that of life.»
And so he grinds his own hands
Where there was never justice for all
There is a stain of perspective
In those expiring eyes
When he mines his own helm
And serves for the greater glory
arm the angels
Bedevilled by our lesser judgment
And another man will die;
It is practically what he is here for
And they will fly their flags at half mast
As if this would imply justice
Never pitied, they will make this mistake again, and again — the damned deny
the ages, and the greatest of ironies:
Our enlightenment would rise;
And with it, the vileness of man
«The tree of knowledge is not that of life.»
And so he grinds his own hands
Where there was never justice for all
There is a stain of perspective
In those expiring eyes
When he mines his own helm
And dies for the greater glory
It is seldom the days in the dark
When he defines his own hell
But in the violent wake of the wise
Where the rabid dog dies
Taring at the roots, where the rats beckon asunder
«Surely he shall deliver thee from the snare of the fowler;
and the noisome
pestilence.»
But these men are left disturbed, yet again
It is seldom the days in the dark
When he defines his own hell
But in the rotted wake of the light
Where the parasite dies
There is no redemption arc in the records of eternal truths.
Just an endless
sequence of cross-currents to the terminus of all paradises lost