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O’ hear the cry of the Wailing Bell,
Wrenching from weak mortal smell
That come from prayers that dwell
Within the heart’s weakest shell.
Standing around the Wailing Bell,
Do you realize you’re story to tell
Is only the part of a dismal spell,
Making the metal scream and yell.
“Why do you come from across the land,
Only to see your words left to be strand
Along the long stretch of time’s sand?
I can’t do anything to help except stand!”
With the cry from the Wailing Bell,
Came thunder, it’s wooden lungs
Shaking all of those who had fell
Leaving behind twisted tongues.
No one was deterred by this though,
Going to the ground on their knees
Humanity began to speak with woe,
“May you hear our prayers, please?”
Never heard, how ironic it was to be
For the Wailing Bell and it’s plea.
All of humanity would never agree
On the Wailing Bell’s sad degree.
Yet there was one man of flesh
Of premonition to forever relish
Yet questions weren’t to wrench
From all his anger he did clench.
Fyodor o’ Fyodor of small Lyon
His fear of death he does hone
After grief took so long to atone
The death of his son o’ his son!
No longer bound by his sanity,
Long ago was that quickly lost
For his son o’ his son a plenty,
Weighed groups of mental cost.
To all the bells he did so venture
Not to whine or cry oh so tender,
But the halls of his heart to enter
His emotions to no longer render.
Only he shall ever realize
There’s a copper sunrise
When the crow’s cry dies
And vows then comprise.