On the cold mountain, we wait,
With two fists full of winter smoke.
Before the moment of past glory,
Repeating itself like two diligent arms,
Of a subservient clock,
We burned with precision.
Under the cover of withered rocks,
Churning the memories of ruin of past,
Flickering lights of red speak.
The lights inflicted,
With molten than revolutionized steel,
Red lights unheard by all but you,
The tale of forgotten kingdom, and
An ancestry long forgotten,
Whispered only by you,
Fed ironically by parasites,