English Translation:

Verse 1:
To achieve the art of fear, they propose the fear of art
First, intoxicating memorandums for those whose views diverge

Then the closure of thought- it doesn't pay to be different

Dissent turns into futile slogans to be metabolised.

The Death of resistance benefits from aesthetic support

Spaces are sanitised and advertisements rise

The blood is sucked out from displays of passion,

Initiation rituals

In theatres staffed by mimes of fulfillment.

Pills of blindness, songs for the phobia

In the production line churning rotten literature

Words become divorced from their deeper essence

Like a city, dug up by its own tourist industry.

A sweet bulemia of addictive consumption

Abortion of critical thought, in the logic of expansion

For an infertile longing, in deserted houses

Blind subjects float in paths of enticements.



Chorus:

When the curtain falls,

Mephisto will shed tears for all that he betrayed when he changed his path.



When the curtain falls,

He will cowardly shed tears in his dressing room before he picks up his pieces, to go out into the city and be thrive.



Verse 2:
In lakes of blood, the vomit expands

A cyclopean technology to leave you without eyes.

Cyclones in serenity, the branches of meaning break

Clones are encircled by the false happiness of a clinical narrative.

In the commotion, totalities that were full of ambiguity

Are now transformed into petty idols

In a storm of images that violently deform

Humanity's ancient need for creation.

And the loneliness is cold, when you're outside the feast

Like a caress from Tinder that lacks any soul.

A Schindler's list that freezes its names in a child-like development

When there is no depth, pits are opened, and you stay there.

And the masks laugh, as they pollute the imagination

Unbreakable shackles in the solitary path towards uniformity

Any diversion is an anomaly-

As small churches close but the drive to worship rises with omnipotence

Like a silent dynasty

Of lifeless spectres and invisible cheques.

For as long as the pens are thrown to waste

We will live in the time of monsters

With easily digestible answers of digital decrees.

Acrobatically balancing

Upon the lips of cliffs that are opening up, ready to swallow-

If everyone obeys, it ceases to be propaganda-

They feel themselves falling but don't stop to wonder

They think that they are dreaming, and fall asleep again.