[Written by Celtic Frost]

The battle is over
And the sands [bad word] 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 [bad word] when the steel [bad word] 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.