Tragedy's Birth - Primordial

The crippled oracle breathes his lungs like grit

His blackened hands, like maps of ungodly lands

Skin as leather, burnt by the sun

This world is not for him, this world is not for

You nor I

When the Gods were young the burden was less

It was not grief and it was not fear

Who cast the shadow upon our age?

Who has crippled the young and blinded their eyes?

He counts the hours, days and awful years

To when the children stare into the sun

The mountains crumble to the sea

And our civilisations turn to dust

They are turned to dust

So slumber watcher, till the spheres

Have turned ten and twenty thousand years

The crippled oracle breathes, his lungs like grit

This world is not for him, this world is not for

You nor I…