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May war be due his endless
and sovereign honours
As the king is due his crown,
the dead their obsequies
Let august murder serve
at the hand of its prince
Deposing the dark years
that neglected its fiege

How the flaming silence
will drink the screams
Of the aeon that incurred
a coward's name

Return the stolen laurels
that were thieved by
Reverence of all life despite how weak
Ill-gloried with all the flattery
of a ferid tyrant
And the pomp hat defers
to a vain throne

The contemptless aeons of our fathers
Prostrate themselves duty
in shameful sorrow
Their heads upon the block,
of lives too protracted
That words would not themselves befoul
To enumerate the course of years
Ignite these impious words and kindle
the world conflagration

Now the flaming silence
will drink the screams
Of the aeon that incurred
a coward's name

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