In Milan's glow an' Cortina's chill they lit the cauldron with more'n flame old pagan sparks from Apollo's hill masked as "harmony," playin' their game Pyramids rise in shadow an' light one-eye glares from the screens so bright Dante an' da Vinci twisted tight while hidden hands weave the endless night Italian grace, they claim it's pure but the air reeks of sulfur an' lure globalist rites in the alpine frost offerin' youth to the gods they lost An' when the torches finally die an' the crowds stumble home in the lie the real winter comes, grim an' slow The soul of the west sold, an' hell's bells toll low