Kriegsmaschine - Enemy of Man (2014)

Thus far inwards come few in this naught and this nowhere.
He who seeks the cross of Christ and falls alone, remains alone in his fall.
Thus far inwards come few in oblivion and all have failed.
He who seeks the cross of Christ shall fall and remain alone in his fall.
I am weary. I am drained. My prayer is adrift, my zeal bygone.
I am forsaken. I am lost. I am open for it to dwell.
An epiphany in starving darkness.
The hunger and the absence.
A new sun, whose rays are frozen and barbed.
Oceans of stasis. Beyond Gehinnom.
Void comes, void claims.
No more I live. See it come in blood and horror as it tears through shrouds of will, as it rips through veils of psyche to conquer and to devour.
See it come in death and doom to feed upon the seeds of doubt.
Erect its throne upon dry remnants of shattered soul.
Scio cui credidi.
My heart and life have become a grotesque sanctuary wherein it manifests with glimpse of its void.
Through every fiber of these putrid lungs each word resounds with bleak confidence andominous faith.
Scio cui credidi.
An epiphany in starving darkness.
The hunger and the absence.
Beyond Gehinnom.
Void comes, void claims, I shall rise high this new heart of stone, forever closed to his love.
A burden, yes, and a bitter reward for adoration of the three nails and true communion with God!
I am transformed. I am given purpose.
Scio cui credidi.

How would you measure ruin? How would you assess fall?
How would you separate sins when all bear the same mark?
This sacred desert is quiet. Lost hopes flicker in the sand.
Only roamed by fiends who seek to corrupt pneuma and prey on sarx.
Grey prince is crowned. Soul aberration.
Un-person, un-einheit. Idle zero.
With golden nails it cuts through cold flesh, to assemble a face of its own.
Cracked shards of forgotten dreams to substitute the rift of its own.
The eternal fire runs high and vast upon bones of the righteous.
As brethren rise as brethren fall, it is hard to miss that it is crowded in lowest pits of despair.
To lose all and regret none.

Come forth!
Now I am become harm, to thrive upon perdition and feast upon the loss.
A tide of living darkness. Erasure of reason. Transition towards silence.
For every shattered dream, for every broken hope, there is no ease but there is conviction.
Row for judgement. Row for the fall.
This is the moksha you asked for.
Southways of nadir.
On to the great collapse.
All paths lead to rupture.
Suppress world. Hinder self.
True liberty lies in waste.
As the substance is torn asunder and as the vultures approach,
I bid farewell to grace.
A pit of starving hunger, a roaring beast of dearth.
A withered shrine of blight and bleached bones.
Lost in a reverie of revelation.
Writhen in anguish upon this grotesque truth.
Southways of nadir.
On to the great collapse.
All paths lead to rupture.
Suppress world. Hinder self.
True liberty lies in waste.
As the substance is torn asunder and as the vultures approach, I bid farewell to grace.

Born in virtue, the will lies dormant.
Comforting hand shelters from horrors of doubt.
As a shining armour. As a living shell.
The sense and the structure preserved in ages.
True revolution comes from true repulsion.
This road is paved with splintered bits of justice, ridden with denial and strewn with ashes of angels, with none to lead the path and none to guide to save shores.
A war is being waged within.
To choose who stare straight in the sun - no man shall see and endure.
It takes great diligence in methodical erasure to pierce the very core of culture, and only after the monuments are crushed it turns out the pedestals were abandoned.
To those who defy the truth - hell pales next to the fileds of astray.
True revolution comes from true repulsion.
It's a land of plenty yet no waters can quench our thirst.
Contrition and repentance seem like bitter sarcasm.
This is the point where tragedy and irony are dissolved in apathy.
Perdition is at hand. No apokatastasis.
The sense and the structure: lies of the fathers.

This earth is arid and barren, adorned with charred remains of lost grace.
Always expanding. Devouring. Our steps held fast to its paths.
A new drought and a new disorder.
Darkness reigns. Locked still at the peak of leap of distress.
A lifetime of agony compressed and purified.
To breath sand and quaff cinders.
Seek harmony in silence and discord.
To caress the dream of refuge, and see it scorched to grey fucking ash.
Parched anima. Ash within. Worms crawl through sear veins.
A vain confession in anatomy of stasis.
Yet seekers shall follow those pathways of bane, woe, scourge and plague, and none shall see redemption.
Forlorn and desolate. Bereft and derelict.
Friction and fire without progress. Without reason.
A profound inner cataclysm.
Freak martyrdom. Numb carcass high upon the corrupt throne.
There is no shelter. There is no refuge. At one with zero.
None shall find peace. None shall be comforted.
None shall be restored and none shall see redemption.
This earth is arid and barren.
Born again in lands of drought. None shall see redemption.

How come this light reveals none of its source and nature, as it guides the thirsty through lands of drought to new springs?
In purest suffering lies purest insight.
A faint gleam of bottomless perdition.
Many are called yet none will be chosen.
Cold sun shines upon their wanderings.
How come the voice of a shining angel is silent and feeble, as it sings the radiant glory and splendor of high heavens?
From scorched foundations to ashen havens.
From withered temples to vacant thrones.
In glacial wastes, beneath empty skies, a monument of decay stands tall amidst ruin.
Scorn and abhorrence. Virtue is a farce.
The shepherd spits at its flock.
There comes the only revelation - a mocking laughter of the fellow fallen.
In purest suffering lies purest insight.
A faint gleam of bottomless perdition.
Many are called yet none will be chosen.
Cold sun shines upon their wanderings.
How come the lord delights in transience, as we perish and fade in mere presence of his light?
How come these springs to ease our thirst flow with the tears of our beloved?