Rush faster on the one-way lane
The answers so silent

Rusty gods in their machine-minds armors
Grind our souls in the millstone of time
The "deathbed harvest" is dead man's banquet
Of mold ridden bread and black, poisoned wine

And we go...our steps 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 relined 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

Gaia impaled on their horns and lances
To fumes from her body give case
As the throng of blind mind savor the scent,
Dream-dead from prosaic and hate

Sun wind strokes the electroheart,
Ignition roars through the corridors,
Stream launching the binary vessels

Vanities in extreme formations
Ride into tomorrow's rigid futile scripts
Of our dying jester race

Copyright: Warner Chappell Music, Inc.
Writer(s): ANDERS PAR FRIDEN, BJOERN INGVAR GELOTTE, JESPER CLAES HAAKAN STROEMBLAD