A Rose in violent bloom
opens up its deep red tomb
and gives birth to a dead, grey heart
With inscrutable runes it is scarred
The clouds are animals of our childish dreams
All men should know that sickness follows glory
And with sickness lies the Danish fate
We live in medieval times
All men will feel that sickness follows glory
And sickness is the Danish truth
We live in a time of plague
A prophet shows his true face
and reveals his strange, evil ways
Each and every holy soldier roars
yearning to lie with his thousand whores
The clouds are massacres of our inner doom