Из альбома: IV: The Eerie Cold

Ambivalence in the rising, as darkness comes binding
Methods of purest salvation, cannot solve the riddles of cosmic creation
A vision of everything burnt to the ground, a vision of a trampled racial crown
Atop the mountain ridge, thousand are the sights that relentlessly itch
It's a golden projection, a blessed opportunity
The final direction, I will not be!

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