O, the flame-tongue, kumara
Gathered are we, the brethren
In the light of the early star
On our long journey sent

To the sacrificial pit of the old
Under all-seeing, fiery eye
As your mysteries do unfold
We shear the blood of lie

For our master appeared to me
As a sinister viceroy sent to rule
Instead of an incapable king
Now: who's the king, who's the fool?

Give the king what's justly his to claim
Tomb of thought, so frail and low
And a sword directed to the skies in blame
In exchange for his dominions woe

Would you shine, O' Azazel
With all the truth there ever may be
When you from heights thus fell
You armed us with the eyes to see

The traces of the lie
Fed to us in the dawn of world
Indeed you are, in your defy
The loftiest kumara of those of the old