---

In the dark there was just a man,

Trying to find, trying to find the sun.

In this place where light is dead,

There are only doors that open to dread.

He finally was the man he longed to be,

In a world that forced him not to see.

There was no echo listening to his mind—

Just him, and the cold breeze left behind.

The mountains stood tall through eternal frost,

Where he saw time flow, while the others stayed lost.

One day he descended, back to the land,

To open blind eyes with a trembling hand.

O Zarathustra, scream through the snow,

Tell the blind what they should know.

Not all who fall are meant to die—

Some descend to learn how to fly.

(Some descend to learn how to fly.)

O Zarathustra, scream through the snow,

Tell the blind what they should know.

Not all who fall are meant to die—

Some descend to learn to fly.

(I am the bridge — not the end, not the whole.)

Who are you to speak of will and flame?

We kneel to gods, and live in shame.

We need no truth, we want no light—

Your words are wounds, your voice a blight.

He follows no god — he stands alone,

For he became the god upon his throne!

You follow me? Then you've missed the path—

Believers rot in echoes of the past.

You are the flame beyond the flesh.

We forgot something that never happens,

We forgot something that never came—

A silent truth with no known name.

God is dead — and I am who remains.