The Fury کے بول

Ahead of these masks of white porcelain, They drain the impure tears, Behind these gloomy hoods, They hide the filthy feeling, Fed by the hypocritical conducts. In relent of your grave, The grayish smoke that tarnished your pale face, It was only the reflex of its soul stained of blood. Fury! That is what I feel. Fury! Nothing more that that. The nosegays of pink that they fancied, They were the same that perforated your heart, Render to explode ardent flammules. They contemplated you with golden wings, The grayish smoke that tarnished your pale face, It was only the reflex of its soul stained of blood. Fury! That is what I feel. Fury! Nothing more that that. Solo (Guitarra e Teclado) Fury! That is what I feel. Fury! Nothing more that that.