He stands alone, bloodied and bowed, mops his furrowed brow and surveys the land of his lord. The scythe he holds in his calloused hands. Now heavier with soil than the blood of years past.
Severing marsh grass in the way, his forebears cut their cordiality with the clergy. The grass proves unyielding, the scythe blunted by the efforts of years past.
A death in the marshes. The defeat inglorious. A death in the marshes. The scythe slowly sinking into the mire.Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
