| Lords, can it be mistakes throughout the constant vows of the lost and gone, blind and wrong | |
| Inside a faith without a home, a fire that is cold, but grows so well, who's to tell? | |
| About it all. | |
| A nation cannot see, the hardestt part to take is not for me, the dying trees. | |
| This is what wars are made of | |
| Haunted The readings cracked and grey and plagerized to date | |
| Altered by the bastards of pure disguise of seas and skies | |
| The pagan drums should wake | |
| The sleeping of the fools to forget the churches language | |
| Who's the fool me or you? | |
| The greatest mask of fate | |
| The longest battle throught the text of great predictiors | |
| For me and you, the old and new | |
| This is what wars are made of |
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