(no subject)
Crimson Tides
Crimson tides paint cold black shores.
On ancient streets lie withered contours:
Stony men with solemn visage,
Holding fast the swords they bore.
The wind whispers through the trees
A requiem of silent screams.
On embers of a gleaming village,
Soldiers rest past final siege.
Seated on a throne of straw,
The Farmer gazes at His rotten crop.
He looks upon our putrid carnage
And sings "que sera sera".
Crimson tides paint cold black shores.
On ancient streets lie withered contours:
Stony men with solemn visage,
Holding fast the swords they bore.
The wind whispers through the trees
A requiem of silent screams.
On embers of a gleaming village,
Soldiers rest past final siege.
Seated on a throne of straw,
The Farmer gazes at His rotten crop.
He looks upon our putrid carnage
And sings "que sera sera".