Into the grim and glowing darkness,
We travel the shimmering, shivering, black serpent
That plugs us straight into the heart of this wretched nightmare.

At the end of this River

Is the end of this War,

It's strewn Banks, Peopled with the Dreams of Dead Men.

Now, penetrating the stillness,
Throwing sanguine seeds into the red wounds of the ruined Land,
Watching the jungle slide by,
Passing the thundering smoke of the Falls,

An apotheosis of linear Destiny.

At the end of this River,

It will only smell of Sickness and slow Death;

We were wrong, beyond wrong,
To try the temper of God and forge a Paradise,
A calm sanctuary on this raging stream.

Everything is gone now.
Even the bonds and shackles, born out of Terror,
Even within this Darkest Of Hearts,
Upon this sleepless River.

If only, this were mere Madness...

If only.

If only.