Primordial

Soiled hands of work, to pit a Nations Fall
Skeletal hands upon the coffers of the Old World
Ghosts of Men, re-writing history
Red ink, from the well of Martyrdrom
Words to drip from the Traitors Tongues
Waging a War between the Crimson lines
The Old Heart of the Earth
Divided, poisoned, ready for the fall
Valiant Men, made to wear the Devils Mask
The Scapegoats for a New Age
Such words will bear the Fruit of Flesh
(Today's Innocence),
Tomorrows Finger on the Trigger
So, who Heralds the Grace of Fallen Empires?