From cold heart to clear sea,
By crown of thorns I bind this ground to me,
I shape the gullible clay of this land,
With guilty fingers, with filthy hands,
Spark life to rigid beasts wth frigid breath,
Inventing their deaths
Enthrone myself their conceited, callous king,
Seated high the dark monarch of bleeding,
To the toil of war, I call these pitiful toys,
Darkest of all joys,
And I sit alone now in this country of my own making,
The red sky screaming, the wounded earth quaking,
This land of mine a monument to pain,
Only ghosts remain