| Walk to precursor that stands, | |
| in front of this living creation | |
| Spoken with pace in this sacred space | |
| The gears are starting to tremble | |
| It lifts up its hand from this golden strand of fiber, | |
| Stops, and it waits there. | |
| Turning its head, awake from the dead. | |
| The gears are starting to tremble. | |
| Now by this time, it's straightened its spine, | |
| Looks down to its chest of silver. | |
| Reaching it hand to this withered man, | |
| The gears are starting to tremble. | |
| Shadow and doom are gone from this room | |
| Where I sit, sheltered by seaside. | |
| Lambent gold heart shall tear me apart, | |
| My gears are starting to tremble, | |
| My gears are starting to tremble. |
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