Who taught you these things, wounding crippling,
I'd say that you're an effective machine, you say
that you're clean, but maybe you're the same underneath.
She saw her son off at the train platform,
it was April 24, her hug that day
was not the same as the ones before.
These fields are haunted by, a thousand men who died,
to stop this Holy War, to stop this Holy War.
I could whisper their names, I could shout to the ceiling,
but something has to change, too many people died believing,
that they would see the day, when you're just a pile of gears, harmless after all these years,
Crippling Machine, -chine.
Belgium is cold, but not as cold as an icy stare of self-piety,
that'll shoot down a plane, tear out my tongue, I swear,
blood still speaks. In the silence as they raise the flag,
they shoot the shots, our young hero is dead, lying peacefully,
what he had to do, he already did.
In the aftermath, of motors, extra parts,
someone is going to try to salvage your heart.
But, I don't care, It's your eyes I'll consider,
Burning first, then your fists, your fingers.
Flanders, Belgium has killed a lot of men,
but not as many as your religion.
You're not escaping the chains you force us to wear,
Hate doesn't respect you,
Hate doesn't care,
What exactly do you fight for?
I'll tear you apart, no diplomacy,
I'll make sure I sabotage all circuitry,
till one day, you and I stop this war