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de Anatolian Weapons

The last harvest of life
Our rage has grown for another age
Pure instinct of silence before the war
Crimson eyes wait in the fog till dark falls
Our names shall be engraved to the battlefield

We shall bury the light in to the never ending night
Then no seeds will give birth again,
No mother will hold an infant with mortal hands
Blaze of the burning temples will greet the prayers
Of death at the last harvest of life

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