When a Syri sings, judgment calls.
Their choices as lyrics, oh how they fall.
Remember their tune, for it is their tale;
To be apart of the Syrisong, is to die a lonely battle.

When glory becomes a lie,
Tute His song with all your might.
Be at a wondrous height,
When you fear His fright.

The heart of us all, the Syrisong,
Never forgets a fiery passion.
For it lost with burning pride,
As vainglory has a painful strike.

Vana Gloria shall be shouted,
The crowd will wait for it,
And when it comes, be desperate,
Or be faithfully devoted.

We are all born anew,
When the Harrowing strikes true.
And our hearts become two,
One a lie and another blue.

His eyes are like the sky.
And they all lay there, asking of the stars.
His testimonies are false,
And give fake response.

Another cries blood through the night,
And shudders with fright,
For when he hears His name,
A tear comes to sight.

Remember this,
Be as true it be,
Lyosn Vana Gloria,
Shall never be free.
© BFlores