We carry the disguised gift throughout the centuries  Leaving behind a trail of tears and shame  Through decaying souls that long for flesh and youth  We're bound to stare into the abyss of our minds    They are imposters for all times  Gone now, amused by our struggle  They were strategic leaders  And I can see their grinning faces    Some fools they were to charish us with such novelty  Or were they masters of invention, imposters for all times?  It's too late to lay it down, this instrument of danger  Used in (the) dark ages, can you hear their distant laughter?    On the turn of another era, will it be our last?  And if it's so, you can be sure that they've done their best  Some day the race of leeches will only be a memory  With all its arrogance, wiped out for good, wouldn't you agree?      ("The Winter Of Our Discontent")