Message of the past slumbers in the dust of ancient ages,
 written by the blood of nations over the thousands of years.
 Temples of dead pleasure hug the rites of black and white visions,
 that step hand in hand through the past like bloody ribbon of madness.
 Over the altars, the dumb witness,
 hovers the images of disfigured souls,
 sick by the faith of [bad word] 

 Fates of blind men are incarnate in the heart of their Saviour
 and his pain turned the lifes into the way to Golgotha,
 where the pilgrimage by the scenery
 of love and devotion to Lord ends.
 In that old chronicle I read about the lust and sin,
 evil and eternal immaculation,
 which defy an evil of longing.

 I wade in the vanity of looking up the rays
 of beauty among the dark pages of hate and rituals.
 However now that old tree,
 through the ages watered by the tears of misery revives
 its sad forms in the birth of hope.
 Love history will resurrect,
 rise from the flower of the white lily and the beautiful swan
 will sing the song for all the evil of the shady history.