I stand here upon a bloodstrewn field,
Bones are the grain we have sowed,
The apocalypse is come,
A sulphuric clarion call,

The eclipse rests above as our spectator,
As well as our reason for being,
A monochrome eye,
Our god in the sky,
A fiery circle of untold power,

A ritual was preordained,
A circle spelt out in moonlight,
We had been waiting,
Though still unnerved,

The circular hate is palpable,
A spheroid hate above us,
An insult to the moon,
We are an apocalypse in huddled corners,
A destructive hate held in raucous voices.

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