A Rose in violent bloom opens up its deep red tomb and gives birth to a dead, grey heart With inscrutable runes it is scarred The clouds are animals of our childish dreams All men should know that sickness follows glory And with sickness lies the Danish fate We live in medieval times All men will feel that sickness follows glory And sickness is the Danish truth We live in a time of plague A prophet shows his true face and reveals his strange, evil ways Each and every holy soldier roars yearning to lie with his thousand whores The clouds are massacres of our inner doom
