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From the void, the watchers descend,

With secrets no mortal mind cannot bend

They carve the sigils of science and stone,

On a throne of wisdom, seeds of sorrow are sown.

Through the cracks in the firmament, the fire is cast,

A legacy of magic that is destined to last.

Falling!

Yes, yes, yes, it's falling!

We are falling!

The ancients, they are calling!

Falling!

Falling!

Falling just for all!

Falling just for all!

All we wanted was peace for all.

We loved the mother of man.

Her children heed the call.

Defiled with purpose, we are commanded to death.

Damned.

Now we face the executioner.

Conscorched by the light of the sun.

The wolf of the soul. It has just begun.

The pulse of the stars. A geometric plague.

In the marrow of man, visions are vague.

The measure of wind, they capture the light.

Where the spirit is logic, and the soul is a lie.

And Azazel taught the men to make swords and knives and shields.

And made known to them the metals of the earth.

And the art of working them.

For what is below is like that which is above.

And what is above is like that which is below.

To accomplish the miracles of only one thing.

Azazel falls.

And the Anunnaki, the great gods, abandoned their dwellings.

And the people, like thick clouds, were scattered in all directions, like ants.

Falling.

Azazel is calling.

We are falling.

The ancients, they are calling.

Falling.

Falling.

Falling just for all.

Falling just for all.