Through the mouth of a nation's harlots
The traitors with endless lies falling behind
A distorted tongue, the origin of spiritual fall
A mouthful of poisoned ideals
All spat into face of these men
Still scarred for nothing, still bleeding in vein
Singing tunes for this dying age
Bow in front of the upcoming death
Bow for the sons of tomorrow
Only a scar for some, still a mark for an other
At the edge of an era, where the martyrs gather
Only flesh for the leaders, marching towards another
An age of redemption or an age for revenge?
Wrapped into the hopeless cross, the one that most of them bear
The voice of oblivion, screaming for the deaf ears
Bow in front of the upcoming death
Bow for the sons of tomorrow
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