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Drums of the dead skin in hands of creators of words
Opening gates to unconsciousness, closing eyes for seeing better
Bounding the sound of doom, trance inducing primitive rhythm
It echoes in the ruins, urges to find new state
Making hands raise broken bones
Forcing to drag behind rusty chains
Finding bleeding civilized creature in blood stained gray ropes
Breath of death can be heard from the lung
Dying look seen from the foggy eyes
Sound of judgement reached the bleeding ears
Blurred sense waits for final void.

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