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We will make barren and salt your fields

We will butcher your sons and take captive your daughters

We will make wine with the fruit of your gardens

Your people, your culture, your life dies with us

The all conquering, this world is ours

Eternal khanate, so the ancestors demand it

We will burn your houses and spit on the ashes

We will set loose your horses and feast on your livestock

We will make wine with the fruit of your gardens

The rivers will be rerouted so that none know your name