Primordial
The Black Hundred
Here there is no god he is ground to dustIn the death machine of industryThe iron hearse sent on bitter tracks to the GulagSuffering forged between the hammer and sickleThe sorrow of men's hearts is a broken peopleNations at the gallows pray for mercy killingMen of the cloth stand in stretch necked defianceFamines fist sounds the death knellThe people's utopia moulds an industrial horizonRusted Vostok in the lap of the GodsI want to burn, give me the funeral pyreLong was life, but my life's waking shortThe highest of my father's sacramentsTo climb towards heaven on a towering flameAnd scream out the injustice by whichMy nation with fiery iron was beset and slaughtered
From Letras Mania