They tend to come on nights of cold
While somber frost is spreading its deathly fingers
On perishing blades of grass
When the distant stars shine ever closer, They come,
To drench the unblessed in trembling fright

Among us... They are now and past
In the future millennia they will still be
Superior

A blinding white paralysis and I float like the feather of a dove
Maddeningly helpless, I leave the muddy soil
Drifting above the slithering worms and carrion
Without wings, I fall skyward
Oh, how envious is the wise owl
As he watches with yellowed eyes of wonder
Sound is nonexistent and the chirping crickets
Have been crushed by the weight of godly silence

Where was I when I was alone?
Take of my body and blood of earth
Take of mind and soul of realms yet unknown
What worth have I before those of the black?

God did not create us in his image
The ancient myth is a psychotic lie
We are separate and will always be
Inferior... Conversion is unavoidable

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