Lucienne کے بول

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 clouds of grey You're getting yourself in our way I turn the other cheek another day Lucienne Burn form me In a fire of a million degrees Break down what stands before us Genocides and Exodus Folklore of a bleeding Nazarene A paradise of parasites Moth holes in wings of white Hollow psalms of mirades unseen We are stillborn before the equinox of the Gods And we shall rise from the sound of whipping rods Yeah we shall rise from this sound of whipping rods (the cherubs are falling, the demons are calling)