A knee on the floor, then the final breath: 
there comes the victory, 
the final step before what's next. 
Darkness speaks and orders, 
and through the hazy veils of this life so far away, 
cries the child who doesn't want to play. 

They'll never get him alive. 
That's why he's reborn to die. 
With all the sorrow he found 
he buries the last relics of hope 
for he knows, 
for he's been told, 
for he's been proven. 

The fate brings back 
forgotten shadows before his tired eyes 
to better throw him down, 
but fanatic rage fears no challenge. 

The father strikes everywhere 
for the sake of holy failure. 
He bites and tears and tackles the world 
and the thankful child 
whose only wish is to die, 
to die from the father's hands. 
Whose only wish is to die, 
to die in the father's hands. 

And he cries of joy and pain at once 
at the sight of the crushing fate, 
the inexorable outcome. 
They die his death. 

The father is done with lies. 
The child couldn't believe anymore, 
so he saw the truth therein 
and built the ruins of his existence upon it. 

He goes as death in life, 
as the shit-covered sword through healthy flesh, 
walking in the voice of the father, 
in his work of entropy, 
in his teaching of life denial.