After the blast, the
morning gets wise, and
does not spill the sun.

And the dead will not
come back to celebrate
the dark after the rage.

There, on the white peaks,
the splattered blood will
draw the face of assassin.

Do not enter the dome of
seething screams. The priest
hangs by the bell.

O, my brother, why we
have become coldblooded after
thousand years of pilgrimage?