The Splint Of Destinations
And men, drunk of vanity
Will know the day in which proud admire their own extinction
And I could before the temples falling down
It's old monoliths in ruins
Their flags burning in a blackened sky
Blue rivers now run red and the burned turf looks back
The gloomy moorland a perfect dead landscape
A deserted earth, mired in dark
On the battlefield the corpses rot
The lightings illuminate the sky and the crows eat their dying meat
They remaining as torn flesh
In the wild and arid Earth there is no glory for the dead
