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