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    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

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