Текст песни
A mantle embroidered in gold shall become a shroud.
The king of slaves commands no one.
Heralds of the true order carry silence
and scatter it by the handful upon the deaf.
Upon the parchment of the sky — a blessing in an unknown tongue.
Let the one who lifts their gaze behold their reward:
Eternity and the void.
All returns to the depth from which it was born.
Bones dream of the fragile lives that once trembled within.
Harbingers of the storm die first.
Did you savor the ugliness of your false kingdom?
Then now, my king, return the beauty of black
to your starved and aching eye-sockets.
King, command the bleeding to stop while your head rolls down the steps.
Nothing obeys you — and you know the reason why.
The crown made of gold, in the end, always rests on bone.
True will commands not bone (not bone), but suns — forbidding them to shine (to shine),
Then what are your gold and shrine?
