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Those cracks art evidence of the Earth’s struggle,
Against a demon, unimaginable.
Grand in stature, She might be scarred, same as us.
Mother of life, giver of life, what pain do you bear from our diction?
We’ve agitated your wounds, we’ve defiled your grounds.
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The crag of your loins, now, as the wind blew through it before,
Hath becomes a whirling cyclone, brimming with death.
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The wariest of travellers is sure to meet his end upon
The bloodied peaks, of that descent.
The war our world country fought has soaked the viable soil,
With the ichor, of humanity.
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The most cunning of God’s angels, navigated the evaporated floodwaters,
Would find naught but a single drop of life,
The persistence of God’s omniscient eyes, deciphering the lettering in the cracks,
Would find naught but a single man, worthy of Heaven24Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ7iHSSLjJTa
