To the teeth of the silver lion
The lamb has willingly bared its throat
A husk of mud shall turn into dust
Cast off shall be the profane robe
In the fiery belly of the iron lion
The corpse of the lamb will burn
Until the remains of this offering
Float out from the bellowing urn
A pool of blood
Becomes a crimson sea
And thus a smouldering seed
Grows into a flaming tree
The age-old lie of shielding feather wings
Overthrown by the reality of forked tongues
And a torch lit between the horns
The image in the obsidian mirror
Shows a newly-risen luminous man
Standing within a circle of warm ash
With his foot upon the skull of the lamb
Like a depthless ocean is the awakened soul
Yet not an infinity abyss of darkness
But one embracing a single sun
A pool of blood
Becomes a crimson sea
And thus a smouldering seed
Grows into a flaming tree
