Paroles: At The Gates. Terminal Spirit Disease. The Fevered Circle.

Each day a mournful pity
Life looks upon you with scorn
Hopes live, visions elude
As your feeble breath is torn

Six sinister thorns of beauty
The claws of the nondivine
Our right to breathe
Our right to bleed
Forever denied

What some seek in the depths of the unknown
Need not be sought so far
Concealed it lurks behind
The truth of what we are
The truth of what we are

Bring it down

Each day a mournful pity
Life looks upon you with scorn
Hopes live, visions elude
As your feeble breath is torn

Bring it down

What some seek in the depths of the unknown
Need not be sought so far
Concealed it lurks behind
The truth of what we are
The truth of what we are

Come on
Bring it down

Each day a fevered circle
Life looks upon you with scorn
Six sinister claws of darkness
Strip your flesh to the bone