Under Moldy Soil, Red Moon Overhead
Under moldy soil, red moon overhead
lay millions of corpses, wars wasted dead
No bands playing, no sweet angels singing
only ghostly echoes, slowly ringing.
Cools winds blowing across such resting grounds
on dark nights, ghost-whispers its only sounds
Low moans, raging regrets of battle cries
rebukes of those that sold such deadly lies.
Sixth of June, sands...
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