We crawled from the marrow of the dying earth, Blind and trembling, teeth before words, Our mothers were beasts, our fathers the storm, And the forest carved its runes into our bones. We do not pray — we devour the dawn, We bleed the sky to keep it ours. We are the wild, the storm’s possession, Spawn of ruin, dark confession, Fed on blood and pale obsession, Crowned through death and damned ascension. The fire-men came with their iron songs, And the trees screamed smoke into the stars. We tore their banners from the wind, And fed the crows with names we could not pronounce. Our hearts beat in the carcass of creation, Stillborn gods whisper in our sleep. We are the wild, the storm’s possession, Spawn of ruin, dark confession, Fed on blood and pale obsession, Crowned through death and damned ascension. The river drinks the moon, The moon drinks us in turn. No light survives our feast of stars, Only the pulse of the ancient wound — still open, still hungry. We return to the earth that birthed our madness, To the roots that know the taste of bone. We howl in the dark between worlds, And the wild answers — welcome home.
