THE CRY OF THE MOOR

The wind sweeps over the dusty moor,
Revealing the demoned hearts which once roamed before.

Yet a sweet and gentle rain doses
The unbearable land,
For this is the work of their dear Lord,
Coming from his warm loving hand.

For the passing of man knew not why
The dreary place remained,
For they are so blind they cannot see
Their own life being taken away.

Does that not faze you in the slightest?
Imagine the destruction of this neglected place,
The creatures have not their stream of crystal in which they absorb
The taste,
Nor the lasting of each new spring,
Where the tranquility of peace is so overwhelming.

The cry of the moor,
Enters thy soul,
Begging and pleading for heart to remain and not to go.