Strife Arms Of The Few
reaching hands- cirkling down i see it twist to nothing torn from what it meant, cou from extence...my fingers bleed, but reaching hands are not weak the light the tonce burned so bright, has now been cast a dismal grey. fighting to keep the voice alive, i cannot left it end this way...i`m held- in the arms of the few! i walk in a line with the skared, never breaking my vow. i swear to you. A rise of commitment strong, a vision to wich it belongs. purty of the mind and body, to keep the resistance moving on ...
