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A thousand graves dominating the cliff like basins

the burials a day like a thousand years

swinging the rusted shovels

holding on to the half rottern arms

Mark of 666 scorched

stepped on the soils where the blood dries

swinging the shovels of souls

thousands of bodies were turned into thousands of

tortured souls.

Forming into a hollow hole like places to rest

staring at the present despairs

lurking within the basins of pain