We rose from catacombs and flame, With ribs of bells and spines of chains. Our breath — a song for crumbled gods, Our blood — the ink for holy stains. You crowned the silence in our lungs, And fed us myths with broken wings. But we are not your mourning choir — We are the end of everything. We wear a throne of ashes, Where once your prayers had burned. We dance in storms forgotten — And laugh as temples turn. We are the chimera risen, The howl that writes its name. Not echoes now, but fire — And you will learn our flame. You carved your gods from marble screams, And dressed them up in shame. But marble cracks beneath our claws — And shame forgets our name. No cross can cage the lightning. No mask can hold the rain. We speak in thundered syllables — And tear through every chain. We wear a throne of ashes, Our choir — storms and cries. We walk the bones of heaven, With fire in our eyes. We are the chimera risen, The breath you cannot claim. Not echoes now, but fury — And you will speak our name. We were born in silence. But we shall die… in flame.
