Dead souls are howling from the belly of the beast.
Dark fingers crying out in search of release.
Stored like cattle in the caverns of the dead.
Spilled onto foreign shores and tortured instead.
THE WHIPHAND CARRIES THE BLOOD...SCARS!!!
A PRISON OF THE MIND.
Skulls crack upon the rocks, and blood flows to the sea.
Escape impossible, no chance for the weak.
Dead children lie in state, in valleys and streams.
No hope is offered here, a graveyard of trees.