Senium

Twenty years buried beneath the weight of silence.
Twenty years of grief carved into marrow.
Twenty years of pain etched into shadow.
Twenty years of misery suffocating the lungs of time...yet our devotion has not dimmed.

The flame did not gutter, though it smoldered in obscurity. Now the coffin of the soul groans open. Weathered and hollowed, the march begins anew; deliberate, with a conviction that knows no end.

The ritual has commenced. Our hymns will seep once more into the cracks of existence, funerary chants carried on the winds of ruin.

The silence is broken. The procession resumes. The dirge marches on.