And the roaring is the thought of fear, and this patience marks the only master.
The claws, with grip on every hope. Sealing
the fate in the hereafter.
Towards, we fly, a victorious journey, allied in death, the common portrait through suicide.
Unholy, oath
of the noble blood, the well of bones, bastards son, a thousand souls for the fallen one.
[lead Marco]
[lead Dennis]
And
so the industry of death is here, his dynasty beholds the throne supreme.
Thus predicted, lasting through time.
'So be it', whispers
the cold, as I die.
Towards, we fly, a victorious journey, allied in death, the common portrait through suicide.
Unholy, oath of the
noble blood, the well of bones, bastards son, a thousand souls for the fallen one.
[lead Dennis]