True Face Of Panic
What is this new madness? On it comes.
Panic, whose blood runs cold.
Fear not this raging madman, evil incarnate.
First on one side then the other.
I hate him worst of all.
As if I stand on some tall beacon, I see it draw near.
On it comes.
Abhorrence, whose blood boils in the vein.
You hate me worst of all
Writer/s: Premonitions of War
