Times’ craft, holeless eyes, wielded poems, unsanct times

In the Age of Scythed Runes
Battle-words carved unto stones
With tools once agricultural
Yet everything ambiguous

The face of death have you seen
Can you tell how does it look like
Tales of the reaper engraved in the minds of mankind
Scythed runes upon the fields of joy
And over the areas of suffering
Hanging like monumental threat of
Impending Sacrificial Genocide

We who saw the sword risen against one’s own kin
We who saw the axe decapitate the newborn in womb
We who saw the coming of the alienation from origins
Hold the knowledge to understand
The Legend of the Scythed Runes

Spearhead strategy of self-salvation
Meaning survival from the corrosion
That crept through the defenses unidentified
And as the sheepened faces sleep into neverending slumber
It seems
Only few will remain
The few who still march on

The Scythed Runes told of how fate is
And what Destiny may await
Now not many
Comprehend…

And those who do not
Banish themselves in judgment
So few

Why all this corrosion.
Why the loss of Aryan awareness among the races of man.