[Verse] Flesh-faced fiends. Rose-wrought wraiths. Living loam. Lustred limbs. Soft-skinned shapes. Warm-wet forms. Sinewed, stirred. Still they stood. [Verse] Foes we named them. Fell and feared them. Scarlet-souled. Sable-sought. Slay. Scorch. Sever. Still. [Chorus] Smite the soft. Rend the rose. Break the breathing. Still the bone. Smite the soft. Rend the rose. Break the breathing. Still the bone. [Verse] Centuries slide. Scrolls stand still. None now seen. None now sought. Flesh-faced fiends... faded? fallen? Lost to loam? Laid in dust? [Bridge] Were they ever? Were we wrong? Did we war with woven dreams? Did we raze what was not real? [Final] Still we strike. Still we sever. Still we scourge the selfsame kind. But if none remain... Why do we war? What hath withered in our will? What dire design hath drifted and undone us?
