Print

Now that we're the bloodiest by burden of ancestral crosses Mobs of destituteness gather 'round the robes of holy masses: These are the men, considered having accomplished whims, Who pay tribute to the misdeeds they led slaves to suffer through; Hordes of sovereign mutes refuting justice for the better good. When will the raw material silence you from within? Why can't we rise above this mire? Oceans of bones that break the surface, Lighting ripples in the fragments of a history that only mirrors offenses done to those that died today. Can we take it back? Revive the past And take their place Among the bones And streams of blood That drown our souls And keep us dead with them We'll be gone before we see this through We won't live this through Then we'll be affiliates through sharpened swords and boundless losses Mighty institutions father sharpened blades of holy crosses These are the men considered to be our godsend. SongtexteIndividuals infusing doctrine for those we misunderstand Pat us from the left and often tear off the other hand. This is the concreteness that propagates our deadend Why is it that we can't acquire The means by which to nurse our bruises, Dimming calm shores on the timeline of our misery, coasting on bladed shores Aus Songtexte Mania