The Black Hundred - Primordial

Here there is no god he is ground to dust

In the death machine of industry

The iron hearse sent on bitter tracks to the Gulag

Suffering forged between the hammer and sickle

The sorrow of men’s hearts is a broken people

Nations at the gallows pray for mercy killing

Men of the cloth stand in stretch necked defiance

Famines fist sounds the death knell

The people’s utopia moulds an industrial horizon

Rusted Vostok in the lap of the Gods

«I want to burn, give me the funeral pyre

Long was life, but my life’s waking short

The highest of my father’s sacraments

To climb towards heaven on a towering flame

And scream out the injustice by which

My nation with fiery iron was beset and slaughtered»