N O S D R A M A

Cold trails, long roots
Xen omm
From north
Nemo ante mortem beatus
Nostromo
Siberia
The cradle
Things that made the pain
Wagons
Waves of insanity
Burning black
At the gates
Ten years
The Ground
Sunset of west

Burning black

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.