In Flames The Jester Race
Rush faster on the one-way lane The answers so silent Rusty 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 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 a silence and silence alone Offering the tokens, the reliced idols To the heirs of the newly raped grounds 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 The fumes from her body give chase As the throng 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
