Light the fires of Hashut!
Let His holy flame rise once more.
Let the Father of Darkness guide our path,
As once He did in ages long forgotten.
From death, He gave us life.
From ruin, He forged a race of iron will.
It is He who placed flesh on our bones,
Fire in our bellies,
And stone within our hearts.
Too long have we lingered in our ziggurats,
Entombed in shadow and memory.
The world beyond has turned and twisted—
And I have grown old.
My limbs are heavy as lead,
My breath dry as ash,
And the torch slips from these petrified hands.
But lo! A new age dawns.
The furnace stirs. The anvils ring.
The forges of Hashut blaze anew.
Rejoice, young Dawi!
The Father has not forsaken you—
He has chosen you.
You are His torchbearer now.
Carry His flame into this new era.
Shape the world as once we did.
With fire.
With hatred.
With the blessings of Hashut!
But know this:
The fire will burn you.
The hatred will consume you.
And then a new generation shall take this torch from your petrified hands.
To war!
Thus spoke Xarathustra.