A tangle of souls that makes the air diseased
Human dismay darkens the horizon
A boundless plain
Stage for the next harvest
Overseen by the jailors of condemned minds
Craving for dead ideals
Collecting all last breaths
Extracting lymph from their jugulars
Fertile ground for seeds of the end
Sickening appetite satisfied
A despicable harvest...
Injecting nothingness
They ripen, ready for Demetra's scythe
The smell of order
A despicable harvest

SOUMETTRE LES CORRECTIONS