A thousand graves dominating the cliff like basins
The burials a day like a thousand years
Swinging the rusted shovels
Holding on to the half rottern arms
Mark of 666 scorched
The burials a day like a thousand years
Swinging the rusted shovels
Holding on to the half rottern arms
Mark of 666 scorched
Stepped on the soils where the blood dries
Swinging the shovels of souls
Thousands of bodies were turned into thousands of
Tortured souls.
Forming into a hollow hole like places to rest
Staring at the present despairs
Lurking within the basins of pain
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