Chaos, trouble, mysterious air
Shines down from the heavens glorious despair.
The morning star has left his realm
The shining knight has surely fell.
A god once stood among mortal men
Now resides in the backdrop of his own relent,
The voice of a people contently mute
Was pushed, had fallen from shame, the golden chute.
A generation now takes his place,
A crowded room built on Gods disgrace.
A history written on burnt flesh
Cares none of the fearless, the brave, the honest.
A people who carelessly torture poor souls 
Has turned His head to the heavy toll,
One must be paid to replace the strife
Of every man who thinks himself right,
For to each his own (so they say),
A cross for every, a toll to be paid.
Suffering and pleasure never existed in skin
And therefore the traitors are those who give in.
Those who stop fighting have already lost,
The hearts of good men tarnished are the coins for the cost.