The harbinger's flaming tongue is now here,
And the screams of the Wretched ripped and tear,
Prepare for this hour of upheaval,
Hour of death; hour for primeval.
The Black is in loop and repetition,
Burning hands behind an apparition,
Claws sinking under a lustful rough skin,
A gush of blood in a huge golden stream.
Neither foes nor heroes are galloping,
Usurpers are hungry and ravaging,
Each bone are feasting on the dead deep soil,
But here it ends; end of a grand turmoil.
And now it ends; the silence screams with fangs,
Venom flows ghastly through a rope that hangs,
Poisoning the noise; no men longer speak,
The trees are still and the wind is meek.
Serenity, our mother, shall give birth,
To a calm whisperer that will unearth,
Each odious seeds of thorough warmongers,
Lo, cast them out and cut them asunder.
A sway of new storm will soon reoccur,
Extravagant affliction to endure,
Cyclical episodes of sheer bloodbath,
 Trepidation is on board in a train of wrath.
Lo, the Black is unfailingly in loop,
Inevitably in repetition,
The Wretched mourns for a great genesis,
The chronicles of our hostile nation.
Tristan Calacal is a college student in the Philippines and is currently taking BS Accountancy. He's an aspiring writer and loves to write songs and poems. He's also an aspiring guitar player and hopes to be in a band someday.

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