There is no end to your punishment.
Oh how the hands of the dead grasp for the aura of lust.
I fall victim unto this grip only to return to the grave and lay in
regret.
As I listen to the march of thousands above my casket I can feel the
vibrations.
The vibrations of an army of men on a campaign unto their demise.
How the women shall cry and the boys shall grow up fatherless.
I have no air to scream, this silence is deafening.
This is the end, the trees are shaking with the slaughter of the army.
The rivers are red with the blood of husbands and fathers while the
enemy returns.
There is nothing left in this war, we've come to its close, not by
surrender.
There is nothing left to surrender, the sky is black and the air is
impure.
This casket offers more comfort than you can ever know.
The battles call for you like the Sirens!
O'Cardinal have you forsaken me so!
The years of testament, lies to my ears have created this destruction.
You're no closer to the cloth than the devil!
This is defiance, you've become a mockery to the faith!
This is my denouncement, of your failure to our crest.
This is the end, to all you have worked for.








Penned by my hand on the 8th of Tenebrae, in the year 537 AD.