The Splint Of Destinations

And men, drunk of vanity
Will know the day in which proud admire their own extinction

And I could before the temples falling down
It's old monoliths in ruins

Their flags burning in a blackened sky
Blue rivers now run red and the burned turf looks back

The gloomy moorland a perfect dead landscape
A deserted earth, mired in dark

On the battlefield the corpses rot
The lightings illuminate the sky and the crows eat their dying meat

They remaining as torn flesh
In the wild and arid Earth there is no glory for the dead