Vultures flying over the same prey
using their power to seal any opportunity,
which are sunk by their hands.
If we can’t talk, we’ll sight,
and our sorrow is sharper than a knife.
And their mistakes becomes buried,
becomes buried behind a smokescreen
that only they are able to believe in it.
The Black Death takes their flag as a banner.
Our voice will pull off their wings, their wings.
Their evil silhouette is not stopping us.
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