• Lifting your hands; ashes of fallen men.
    For an up bred storm gathers.
    Yet bloodshed victory leers to the tears of the young,
    as black hands of filth claw at the hearts of those most innocent.
    ...never hearing the blade.
    ...reaping sullen mist.
    As an hourglass mantle then filled to the brim,
    drips onto the wounds of these three broken earths.
    For the roars of battle learn the distasteful tastes of men.
    And the sun,
    for gold-tinted blood, ceases to rise.
    ...while turning the wind against the hate of your screams,
    leaves you pathetically dying through the weight of your heart.