Part 4: The Great War
The motherland cries of bloody rivers
Cursed is her soil
And barren her quiver
As the war hath spoiled
Most arrows delivered
A crimson seed fell into the ground
And cried out to Arthiom
“How long until we’re found?”
“When is your day of action?”
In agony, it is crushed under the weight
Cries and gnashing of teeth
While blinded to its awful fate
At the brink of eternal grief
Its only hope is The Triumvirate
The One Who Desired More Than Given
Has been snatching many
Sowing seeds in the evening
Making the ground much deadly
He has been deceiving from the beginning
When his love turned into envy
By seeking all praises Given
To the One he loves to call enemy
