Do you feel the wind,
that will be the death of us all?

In the aftermath of this stormy season almost over,
the cold wind blowing through my chest,
reminds me of the the ghost of babylon the broken,
there are no more dreams for me.

In the aftermath of this stormy season almost over,
the cold wind blowing through my chest,
the whore of babylon unrevealed,
this is the sound of her dream.

We are drunken and marching,
towards hopelessness confused,
and our emperors have become one,
and this war has given you only one chance.

In the aftermath of this stormy season almost over,
how many chances will you give yourself?
The woman of the apocalypse unsung,
this is the sound of her delirium.