The corpses in mud so corrupt and alluring,
As relics of the sinful saints from times past.
This land is a grave so boundless and vast,
I have yet to grasp what it is obscuring.

The blessed and the cursed are amassing,
Speaking in tongues only they comprehend.
Do they sing praise of their sins or repent?
Perishing again with each moment passing.

An accursed miasma seeps into my nose.
The stench of death and scent of Hell,
It is here where I shall dwell,
On the land of pitch black crows.

I have finally fallen and shall not rise to stand,
Alas understanding the language of death.
Though I cannot recite it in life and in breath,
For I have now perished and this is my land.