Lords, can it be mistakes
Throughout the constant vows of the lost and gone, blind and wrong
Inside, a faith without a home
A fire that is cold, but grows so well, who's to tell
About it all, a nation cannot see
The hardest part to take, is not for me, the dying tree
This is what wars are made of
Haunted
The readings cracked and grey, and plagiarized to date
Altered by the bastards, of pure disguise, of seas and skies
The pagan drums should wake, the sleeping of the fools
To forget the church's language, who's the fool, me or you
The greatest mask of fate, the longest battle through
The text of great predictions, for me and you, the old and new
This is what wars are made of
Haunted

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