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• Artiste: Panopticon
• Titre: The Death of Baldr and the Coming War
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in the darkest cracks of our psyche lies a place where nothing grows. descendent of the intrinsic fires who's embers cease to glow enveloped in despair of political disrepair while we feast on the scraps from the table of the haves and have mores (there's nothing there!) they dine in celebration, raising their glasses to the coming war the iron fist of the sentinel smashing our hopes as it comes down we abandon lofty hopes with our feet planted further in the ground. who will muster the strength to rise? who will muster the strength to rise? Arise! as the infantry line the streets scattered with the malnourished bodies of our young the weeping word: revolution: aching on our tongues take up arms brothers and sisters. now is the time to make the streets ours as we've tried for years to find freedom we call it the struggle, they call it crime: NOW IS OUR TIME! our time to die for freedom. to be inspired by the ghosts of our past FOR RED BLOOD TO STAIN BLACK CLOTHES the pounding drums of the bombs blast! we will gnash our teeth and bathe in our own blood we will die laughing while we swim in the flood victory may only exist in our minds and in nature's oaken pantheon when the lights finally go out, the songs of our revolution will play on the song of our revolution will play on.