Axes
raindrops in shapes of daggers.
wolves hungry for the hunter’s son.
razorblade rocks and concrete sky
ride the thunder that strikes you down.
my father steps on gaïa’s tomb.
what a worthless dirge is sang!
written for an ounce of gold,
a lie that was never told.
a story we forgot to tell.
a dirge that is not worth singing.
the shrines will be splattered with blood
of those who dare to face the wind.
a prayer engraved in stone unleash the beast
at the gates of town.
oh son, what have we done ?
the games that you play all night long
burn ‘till the morning and at the end are gone.