Look with me upon these screaming faces.
From what hand will these blistering masses feed?
For the one who stretches out his own brand of nourishment,
will fall under trampling feet and racing hearts
And the blood-red banner of chaos
That they hoist on high.
How can mayhem be led,
If it is leadership which has become the sworn enemy?
What machine has man unleashed?
Look upon them with me;
Step away from it all.
How sad it is that the monuments to our rebellion
Will be burned to make way for their own.
Ashes underfoot, always ashes.
All the tattered badges of nobility,
every charred flag of order,
has been buried in the scorched wasteland
of resistance.
Where is the golden whisper of symmetry
If it ever existed?
Where is the god that we were promised?
Have we not trampled him underfoot as well?