It's been an interesting time down south:

The dark path, the smell of death,
The mountain air is fresh no more,
Of heretics, of vile breath,
The neverending, blind quest,
Searching for strings,
Searching for strings,
To wrench the gut from the loom!

The sweetest lullaby, plucked from the finest strings,
Within' the beast a fire roars, and notes dance upon the wings,
They float up the neck into the ears and fire is suddenly steam,
And this is how the story ends and crushes all your dreams.

It is our strings that will find you,
It is our strings that will bind you,
Hiding in your mountain trench,
Nostalgic for the times of old,
It is your guts that will soon be wrenched,
Our strings are strung with doom!

The priests have not learned from their failures,
They have not learned from their past,
The teacher taught nothing of carnage,
But obviously truth matters less than the path.

The call to war, the trumpets sound,
From highest peak, to the blood-stained ground,
We've kept ears to the earth and blades by our sides,
We've learned from our past and are ready to die!

It is our strings that will trip you,
It is our strings that will clip you,
No wings to bear the weight,
Nostalgic for the times of old,
Your path is headed nowhere fast,
Our strings will find you soon!

A light ahead, hope returns,
The Spire is clear again,
Of heretics, of vile breath,
The neverending, blind quest,
They all met their death,
They all met their death,
Our strings now are silent (and waiting) once more!

-Derivan