Under old pine trees - men dressed in wolf skin We the summoned are here to enthrone their mires and rocks
My creed turned to wrath, my breath to break the morning calm, my rage to tear their souls apart, and my sword to make them serve man-blood
I swore a foreign oath, for what? Words that will be compromised, greed sheathed in hallowed illusion. Creeds proclaimed in apostate ways.
Their blood will enrich the blooming of the cold flowers in summer’s breeze, Worship thy domain; you are not less than them, veiled with pitch-black stratagem. Now, a desolate and silent domain serenely lies in wait, Sown are the seeds of growth, solemn thoughts, yet profound.
You are not alive, you do not exist, You are a withered garden - Spiritless and soul-less, a dead man walking.
White flowers turn blue - covered in dry blood, blooming under a crescent moon His arrival has been marked. A war into the wolves’ lairs is set to startTeksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
