---

Rushing to the old idea 

I found the day in the valley. 

My horse died while the planet goes, 

priests holding twisted signs.

They predicted the end, 

invoked the black lightning. 

Wise books condemned to the flame, 

they forbade the wings of angels.

But you will slowly rot 

when you smell my dying meat!

Punishment is a gray day, 

birds that die as pests. 

Children who eat the young trees, 

hysteria is a disease.

They predicted the end, 

invoked the black lightning. 

But you will slowly rot 

when you smell my dying meat! 

Smell my dying meat!

Rushing to the old idea 

I found the day in the valley. 

My horse died while the planet goes, 

priests holding twisted signs. 

Punishment is a gray day, 

birds that die as pests. 

Children who eat the young trees, 

hysteria is a disease.

Wise books condemned to the flame, 

they forbade the wings of angels. 

They predicted the end