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

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