Liaztraht Burial Under Skies Of Black
Steel-clad hands carve through the earth,
marching without lament, without mercy.
The hunger of conquest swallows the sun,
as hollow faces tread the broken land.
Shattered bones whisper beneath their march,
the echos of greed, the dirge of ruin.
No banners remain, no glories remain—
only silence and the carrion call.
Gold-stained fingers grasp at empty thrones,
hollow crowns rust upon their brow.
Crimson fog rolls through the smoldering fields,
warriors kneel, but not in prayer.
The sky watches in unmoving contempt.
Lightning does not mourn.
Thunder does not grieve.
Only the earth remembers.
Spears crack against the weight of folly,
the wind sings their names to oblivion.
No salvation will rise from the charred trenches.
No redemption will bloom from the blackened soil.
Buried beneath steel, beneath hatred,
beneath the endless call of the abyss.
The victors, no longer men—
the defeated, no longer named.
buried under skies of black.
Cloaked in smoke, shrouded in dust,
forgotten under skies that never weep.
No banners remain, no glories remain—
only silence and the carrion call.
Burial under the skies of black.
