Lucienne

Dead angels are our friends

May the demons smile again

And may our virtue be superior



Judge and jury, who's to blame

And in the end it's all the same

Rusty ruins with gold exterior



Like quivers hung from clods of grey

You're getting yourself in our way

I turn the other cheek another day



Lucienne

Burn for me

In a fire of a million degrees



Break down what stands before us

Genosides and Exodus

Folklore of a bleeding Nazarene



A paradise of parasites

Moth holes in wings of white

Hollow psalms of miracles unseen



We are stillborn before the equinox of the Gods

And shall rise from the sound of whipping rods

Years we shall rise from the sound of whipping rods



(the cherubs are falling,

the demons are calling)