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