A gloomy, gloomy world,
Where fire is all but weapons.
People burn, trees scorch,
And yet man fights to his sons.
Omens are out in the sky,
Words are written in books.
For the Christ will rise again,
Undead and unheeding unlike before.
The world will bleed again,
In the arts and pikes it made for herself.
And yet they will never get peace,
For there won't be a grave to hold.
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