Rush faster on the one-way lane

the answers so silent



Rysty gods in their machine-mind armours

grind our souls in the millstone of time

the "deathbed harvest" is a dead man´s banquet

of mould ridden bread and black, poisoned wine



And we go... our step so silent

And we go... our blooded trace

the Jester Race



Calling our to the gathered masses

their answers so silent



And we go...



Embracing the tools of the neo-wolf age

that speak of silence and silence alone



Offering the tokens, the reliced idols

to the heirs of the newly raped ground

inferior even to the transparent winds

- lesser in motion and sound



And we go...



There is no trace of me

in their altered blueprints of life



Gala impaled on their horns and lances

the fumes from her body give chase

as the strong of blind men savour the scent,

dream-dead from Prosaic and hate



-epilogue-



"Sunwind strokes the ElectroHeart,

ignition roars through the corridors,

stream launching the binary vessels"



Vanities in extreme formations

ride into tomorrow´s rigid great face

The Machinery outlives the futile scripts

of our dying jester race