The bridges will burn and the tunnels will flood with the rivers and earth of our ancestral blood. The tables will turn and we'll be sitting like ducks in a row. Dead in the mud with our heads under water and our bodies corrupt by the sores on our skin the bones within us come undone with every new tide coming in.
Helladelphia on the horizon. Who will sing for us when we are gone? Helladelphia on the horizon. Who will dance for us when we are done?
The flames can be seen for miles on the highways through cities on fire burning life in our eyes. The skies fill with noise from screams of the dying crying wolf to disguise that they're still alive.