The Bladed Tongue

I never get to see the sun set here,

I just hope that which is born of east mountains

Finds a home behind me in the lonesome ocean.

The burning red suns, the burning red suns

Always on my left, always on the run

Daily scorch the life off these barren steppes

And steals my fellow nomads' rest.

We pray that, like a rain of silent death,

Our bolts moisten the earth while they steal their last breaths.

Wet with sweat, wet with blood, wet with tears,

The ground beneath those who've kept us hungry these past ten years.

The world will shake; Atlas himself quakes in fear,

As he looks upon the fields of the damned. In silence, he peers.

Under these three suns we will shed our tools,

We will shed our shackles that we've worn like fools.

We will shed our weapons, our swords, our bows.

We will shed our blood over our lifeless foes.

That which is born by what is thought and said,

And idea will not die by losing its head.