Thousands of headless phantoms march down darkened paths,
Haunting every alley, every lane.
Their savage presence plagues the city’s campuses,
Thirsting for fresh blood,
As the brilliant beacons of light slowly wither away.
In monstrous ecstasy, they run wild,
While through the abyss, only the fierce eyes of armed shadows gleam.
Ash-grey pages of history scatter across the sky,
Every golden letter burns to ash,
And Kanishka‘s sovereign head is nowhere to be found.
Deep into the night, dark souls stay awake—
Devouring Bismarck’s cold diplomacy,
The brutal lore of Hitler and Mussolini.
And resting a hand on the blood-soaked shoulders of the blind,
The history of our dark age is being written.
