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The last meeting in the glare of a dead faith

everyone has fallen and you know,

and we know, but we don't know that we know.

The end is fear, and all the walls are falling (again),

but there is nothing, no guarantee,

we are wolves from nowhere.

So useful illusion, but there's no soul,

no mystical fusion.

We need to cross the blackest sea,

the temple of the dead.

We have to prove that chaos is real,

that we are not what we think we are.

The last meeting and each flag is on fire.

We can see another color in the golden apple of discord,

and play with those veils of horror that we have called beauty.

The death of the idols, no divine guarantee,

the sterile sun is rising...