Slaughter me, bury me, hide my face.
Rid me of this awful place.
For dark depths, do we climb.
Up to where our souls sublime.
This dreary fate that we have drought.
An unlikely date, that we have fought.
The Grandfather’s chime, to Grandmother’s stone.
I hang my head, upon thy throne.
To slaught the king by which I’ve known.
To death, to battle the victor’y cry.
And onward going until I die.
My men. The horses. All heed the cause.
By which old men have known and lost.
The brutal battle, by which we call war.
The never ending loss, the gruesome gore.
Look west, and find the Horr’.
Alas’. Tis’ true, my brother is dead.
The country, by which, I’m born and fed.
Why do we fight when Hate is near?
His choking grip is not for you, my dear.
My love, my country, this painful loss.
What loyalty do I bear to cost?
And what fear is buried beneath it all?
This war is won, but my heart is lost.
A wager, a bargain, the Devil’s own hand-
Has offered me life, for the death of one land.
“The tale you see, isn’t yet done.
My servant, my partner, my longing son.”
Although I am dead I walk this earth,
Forgiven instead of loss, and worth-
So much more than my poor Mother’s hearth.
Why did she birth a demon like me?
Why give life to Hell, with seed?
Unworthy, of death itself, indeed.
My brother stands before my feet,
Dead, head ridden, lost to me.
My thorns sprang out and took the life,
Of which my mother gave that night.