From the mouth of those who speak,
From the arid sands behind the lies,
From the denials of one’s own roots.
Through the rotten teeth of a warlord,
Through the ages of conquest and slavery,
Through the history they seek to hide.
Under the moon the pagan symbol,
Under the blade the barbarian background,
Under the crescent the banner whistles.
Around their rock they journey each year.
They destroy what they must fear:
The truth, their Pagan past,
Like the deserts they think they will outlast.
Their God is not ours;
The world suffers as we all count down the hours.