the ages scorn those of ebon slumber beneath scattered mounds across the moors
shattered legacies of the fallen - voices silent, yet not unheard
hanging still in the evening mist their whispers linger
resounding echoes of the past poised to awaken the spirits of the true
with the chilling gaze through panes of black grasping for any sense of being
a rapture of maddening clarity - the ancestral seed begins to bloom
soil churns - awakening - rising through the decay
eyes open to behold the silhouettes upon the moor
clutch firm the spear passed unto us, with their wisdom we march to war
the noose is tied and waiting for long due sacrifice
let it be known despite the turmoil that never shall we be one...

robbed of essence are those to hang from our father's oaken arms
in assurance that all once died for is never left to the worms...