The wounds are carved to the bones, the borders have faded
The yesterdays are hailed with open arms
Once lost, but now arisen is the strength of the old
And the firm beast within, the ruins lie ahead
No blood will be shed for the fallen, no seeds will evolve
No bridges ahead, all burned and for nothing
Where are the books that were written with that blood?
Hidden inside and forgotten, betrayed by their nations
The end of the nation, the cultural genocide
Where the path leads beyond the redemption, through the bones to the dust
The thirst of the nature’s darkest womb, a heritage of blood
Horns of the certain end, howling for the endless flames to rage

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