In Flames

Rush faster on the one-way lane
the answers so silent
Rysty gods in their machine-mind armours
grind our souls in the millstone of time
the deathbed harvest is a dead manґs banquet
of mould ridden bread and black, poisoned wine
And we go... our step so silent
And we go... our blooded trace
the Jester Race
Calling our to the gathered masses
their answers so silent
And we go...
Embracing the tools of the neo-wolf age
that speak of silence and silence alone
Offering the tokens, the reliced idols
to the heirs of the newly raped ground
inferior even to the transparent winds