Peasants

These days are growing darker
These times are getting worse
Strangled by iron fist
Into the mire – immersed

A thrall is whipped; servant to man
Gold is the master of the whip hand
Desperate is this age
Born to be slaves

Peasants

Our will wanes ever weaker
These chains augmented – strong
Our weary eyes are tortured
By the crushing burden of another dawn

Blind, these men of God
This faith in divine law
It has abandoned all
Nothing to save our souls
Into the blighted depths
Trampled down by arrogance
Spit forth your final breath
Scream for your oppressor’s death