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t takes a lot of blood to make the hills,

Woods and fields echo with the pipes of pan again

Sorcery, Sanctity. Through the boulder fields,

Caught by brambles-A Secular Grave Beneath the Hills

Flames that lick on the side of winds that whip

Through the surface of the glass

I hear something in the woods,

The People of the Monolith

The barrier is thinnest when the autumnal gate is breached.

Pendulum swings as does the reaper’s scythe

Safety out of sight

Hands blindly grasped-A Secular Grave Beneath the Hills

Flames that lick on the side of winds that whip

Through the surface of the glass

I hear something in the woods,

The People of the Monolith

Just beyond what you can sense

The golden tall grass,

Just beyond what you can see

A Secular Grave Beneath the Hills….