Iconoclasm -

What have I become

A leader of a tribe

A tribe who hates their God

Their countenance has fallen

A cold and bleak horizon stretched across our time

Am I real?

Am I real?

The foundations of mountains are set ablaze, and the tongues of men confounded

I have left nothing alive of the enemy;

their people are as a fading memory

Precious stones and pearls I have pild up with their bodies to be burnd

Not one cattle, neither the vestiges of their Gods have I taken for the spoil

And yet my children rose up to play

Tempted away by such gilded nothings, the seeds of dissension were sewn from

within

Wandering eyes found fixed upon the bust of the Whore of Babylon

A gradual pollution has caked the walls of their lungs

Breathing the fumes of dead flesh

Bones scattered in the ashes

They have sewn shut the mouths of prophets, urging them:

«Prophesy not unto us right things, speak unto us smooth things,

prophesy deceits,»

«Get you out of the way, turn aside out of the path, cause the Lord to cease

from before us.»

Rolling and writhing in the mud, like unto beasts

Sinking into the bottomless pit