when the stories first were told
they fell upon deaf ears
the wretched chronicles that were written
by shaking hands, with blood red ink

stand in the darkness, to prevail the aftermath
the circle's closed, a finalizing path
the last believers, the prophecies they found
fatal perseverance, to this our fate is bound

the wreckage drifted upon the shores
they carved out patterns in the remains
over the lands the waves were eating
the precious and irreplaceable, lost in vain