[Written by Celtic Frost]
The battle is over
And the sands drunk the blood.
All what there remains
Is the
bitterness of delusions.
Circle of the tyrants.
The immortality of the gods.
Sits their side.
As they leave the walls
behind.
To reach the jewel's gleam.
Circle of the tyrants.
The days have come when the steel will rule
And upon his
head a crown of gold.
Your hand wields the might.
The tyrant's the precursor.
You carry the will as the morning is near.
I
sing the ballads of victory and defeat.
I hear the tales of frozen mystery.
Your hand wields the might.
The tyrants the
precursor.
You carry the will as the morning is near.
The intensive gleam.
The new kingdoms rise by the circle of the
tyrants.
In the land of darkness.
The warrior that was me.
Grotesque glory.
None will ever see them fall.
And hunts and
wars are like everlasting shadows.
Where the winds cannot reach the tyrants might was born.
And as I often look back with tears in
my eyes.
Grotesque glory.
None will ever see them fall.
And hunts and wars are like ever lasting shadows.
Their distant
call.
