From the deaths of a million men
A child buried in the arms of his mother's grasp.
Decayed bodies piled up one by one.
Maggots devouring an emaciated carcass.
Starved the life from my flesh.
I neither have the strength nor will left.
In the dead of night it lurks in the shadows.
Among rats and filth, to quench its desires;
Carving up your flesh.
When you are dead with shame.
A thousand men will come for you.
As you fall into slumber.
Unbeknownst to the maggots.
They have already consumed your soul.
God doesn't pity this shadow of your former self.
To cleanse these bodies of this disease we must purge the filth with fire.
We offer our
Dead to a god that doesn't hear our prayers.
He selected by hand a million men and women.
The children were left to rot in the sun.
For the crows to take helping of their severed tongues.
Who do we blame for the death of a million men?
Decomposition rearing its ugly head upon the dead.
With withered hands I caress your lifeless face.
Behold the angels of the black plague.