A Rite Of Passage

Primordial forces of conception, the origins of creation
Exhumed from dust, the power which it gives you
Meteors of dismay reign high above the mountains

Where everything slowly takes its shape,
This pilgrimage seems to last forever;
Bewildered remains its gaze,
Through the piercing flames of the ancient age

Feeling the pain of generations,
Your ambitions, your hopes

All conceived, yet to be achieved,
All the faces fade away;
I refuse to die for your ideals

Words and thoughts have power,
Words of the wise;
Your guilt, your tears:
They give it life...

Primordial forces of conception,
The origins of creation

Exhumed from dust, the power which it gives you
Meteors of dismay reign high above the mountains