The rocks are covered with moss
Their disintergrating and dying slowly
They need to be lifted from the ruins
(an old king's skull)
They need to be thrown into the face of christ
So they shall rest forever in history
Christ's children shall grow brittle
Gaining heat with her anger, ashes they'll become
She is impregnated with the seed of hate
Breeding minions for the rebirth of war
With the brutality of ancient battle
Their weak pathetic souls shall wither
The axe heads sleeps in sheets of rust
The only warmth is from the severed limbs
But the blood from long ago evaporated
And she needs the blood of her destroyers
So remove the axe from its comfort
And enrich her soil once again