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This child shall weep for the mourning son when the sky bares another sun.
Anger and blood shall wash ashore, when all have failed to head thy mother’s score.
Thrice shall these mountains stand, thrice shall these hills befall, only once shall it be and in their shadows, none may stand tall.
It shall reign with dread and sorrow, and cleanse only hope of tomorrow.
They’re wicked tales of hope and glory, forged in lies and a red story.
Then it dawns, the crimson eye, from near and far, we too shall cry.
And then he runs, the rivers dry, and then they too shall die.
And then the ones, whom before us came, shall wither to the soundless name.
The reign shall end in the crimson sky when it has seen that all is nigh.
The master’s hands, how beautiful they are, woven dreams of tissue scar.
These hollow fools in cherry’s bloom, an end in sight before his tomb.
The Mark of reason shall unveil, the truth foretold and ships will sail.
To these lands of honored martyrs, where their graves lie still, when the last hill shall fall, he shall rise, a mountain to stand tall.
The two kings shall reign their terror stream, of river blood and malice seen.
The highest king shall turn his crown and face the East where blood is found.
The end of life and the end of all, these three kings and these three princes, in his shadow they too will fall.
This child shall weep for the mourning son when the sky bares another sun.
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