In the line of the horizon, beyond the twilight where the stones tells their story, you can hear their sighs pushed by the wind.
Esthar's the damned and desolated capital before the veil of the centuries.
The disease saddens and rots the inside of their hearts.
The weak light of the morning shows the putrid corpses piled up.
The reflex of the absolute chaos enthronement on earth.
A world plunged into horror, the infected air floods the streets of the town.
The strength of the divine ire that turnes up your world into misery.
Black death feeds your soul,
tortured spirits invaded by rage.
The strength of the divine ire that turnes up your world in misery.
The moon governs in the peace of the night when the corpses without their skins belong to the past .
Searching in your entrails, suppressing your sins, the black crows devour your flesh.
The winds of pestilence invade the valley subjugating all of them to the devastation.
The strength of the divine ire that turnes up your world in misery.
The vast and desert lands have been destroyed by the curse of the black death.