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The whirlwind howls my name
My mind soars across the planes
The blood upon the stone
Dried ages ago
And the gods are sleeping
No one left to bow before
Our race has lost it's way
Temples lye in decay
Belial in his lair
Awaits the trumpets blare
And the gods are sleeping
No one left to hear our prayers
The ancient gods are waiting for the call
From the seven trumpets of Altamont
The seas will churn the dead shall rise again
The serpent shall be loosed the rivers all run red
Lords of the lihght awake
Rise up unto your fate
Belial's horde awaits
Open the ancient gates
HATA BİLDİR
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