The cortege of nobility and clergy
sets in motion slowly
on the way to the scaffold.
Their final eye's fixed on the sky
under which they lived superior
to the rabble turned rebel
that ordered them to die.
Guillotine’s knife reflects grimly
the shine of a rising sun
that predicts rivers of red
heads pierced as trophy
it's a shame to be among the dead.

The Reign of Terror makes them bleed
cause the rabble needs to be fed

But the masses and the classes mix-up
so the pointed massacre turns at random.
Even leaders of the revolt are dragged into their
own ostracism, kill each other cause of pursuit
personal phantom.

But as a collective, they already consumed
the feudal web, started liberation with grandeur
at revolution's first unstable step