The Rain

As the martyrs tremble With fear of the torment awaiting Their stakes are looming Turning pride to remorse But the choice is made Their righteous piety fading For their souls shall burn at dawn Will their god be waiting? Like the sun of death: Demise! About to rise No phoenix rising... "Black fire consumes us Enslaves us to unbearable pain Can't anyone end me and send my soul away?" In the howls and whispers of the dying You hear them scream: "Grant me the gift of death" No phoenix rising!

Submitted by Pestilence — Apr 26, 2025