In the fragrant cloud of dark
They pray for a faceless, named God
With struggling tongues and hips
Sealed against the enemy of Apocalypse
For Hell lays done, hell is their home
Bittersweet home of fear and scorn
Where they hear just their own tongue
And blinded they'll fall one by one
Built in paradox of fear
and the name, they've made
shall be forgotten one day
when one's going to be the god of real
A hidden animal rips the flesh
of pleague, sodomy and death
human hearts with opened breasts
a mirrored wolf-face you couldn't sense
In the swirling stench of dark
we pray for a nameless face of god
mute prayers we create as a spark
but the same words do we say it's not
