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Gods to the Godless

I have one desire let it be, a pestilence upon your lands

A plague upon all your houses, it is my wish

To enslave all your people, the soil enriched with their blood

To burn your places of worship our Gods shall become your GodsAll that lives on the vine is rotten, may your wines be foul

And your bread as the flesh of the dead

An ill wind to bring, bought but decay

And the stench of your slaughtered kinThe newborn, borne with fear in their eyes

And slavery in their limbs as tools to build a new empire

We are your cross to bear, perhaps you shall be a martyred people

But as sure as the night follows the day, a dead peopleThe desire to sweep away what is sacred and profane

To enforce and embrace tragedy, to embed it deep

Within the subconscious of generations

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