years come to a close fog crawls on the ground, soiled by those who frightneingly gather, under the fucking banner hands cup ears, nothing but echoes
his army of hellhounds, defeated by one stormy eyed fox, warnings unheard relative of the siren, who brings the fog masks penetrators, moving like wind close up turning point, eyes finally widen
float upon, the returning echos to the protecting banner welcomed by a demon whore fox
years close, diseasor exposed one blooded hand nothing but echoes