There were a time were everyone was hated, There were a time were everyone was killed, So you write this poem for those you didn't meet and you write this poem for those you won't meet.
One, the crossfield is planting Two, the crossfield is growning Three, the crossfield is burning
Humans are the seed of the cross, and they making the work of a life. everyday in the field of crosses They are going to the afterlife.
Four, they try to replace it Five, they try to forget it Six, they try to remember it
Seven, everyone dies again, and the cycle of life continues The ghost are enjoying the rain, While the living are singing the blues.
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