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I don’t care the institutes of God.

Call me a pagan if you’re pleased

I don’t care the wavers of the book

with tied eyes.

Thru veins into the head of whip

shivering the power from the fist.

Hand in hand the lion and the king

staring to dawn.

Hear the storm, hear it rise against you.

By words transparency of will,

by eyes into the re-birth sin.

In the name of something you can’t see,

but which can hurt.

  Hear the storm, hear it rise against you.

  Cross your hands

on your knees.

Lay your eyes

kiss the ring. They burn you.

  Hear from the past

hearses arrive

Hear echoes of distant commands.

Hearses has been sent for you,

waiting until you fall.