In an empty room eyes without a face
They are stirring other images,
glimpses of a distant life,
of a gone life

The hands cannot identify the face
Behind the Iron Mask

Dim is within on the plane of the mind
a kneeled spirit under the boot of fear
cleansed with torture
trapped in purity by the whip

Daggers from sound penetrate
resistance behind each one,
a Holy inquisitor
Mouths reveal the presence of
haunted beings unworthy to be said alive

Open the window
Release the spirit from this empty body
Behind the Iron Mask

Draining pleasures from mental wounds
a need opposed to false excuses
unveils the greatest beast