Why have I been chosen, by the gods.
To fulfill my service and cease the air I breathe.
No prophet, no soldier of war
A duty fit for a man, when im just a kid
They said, “consider it an honor to be the offering,
The sun will rise another day for your sacrifice,
Your blood bone and flesh will please our king”
Old stories tell good fortune, but theres no light,
At the end of the tunnel for me!
the dial strikes midnight, moon is full and clear in sight,
All flames are out, the offering begins
The priests assembly quickly, leading me up the stairs
Blood soaked and stained, but soon mine too shall be drained
Obsidian knife is put to lathe, (put to lathe)
to assure my flesh can be severed by the sharpest of blade. (blade)
Carved and cut, skin splits with ease
Lungs still breathing, heart still beating
In mumbled tongues, prayers are made
This childs life will bring new days
time is no longer with me, heart now in flames.
In smoke my soul is set free, no more gods to please
Fifty Two Years, one life will bring a new day
Fifty Two Years, if chosen there is no mercy
I was the carrier, but did not carry,
The gift given, and taken by the gods
Fifty Two Years, treasures and blood
taken in an act of brootal sacrifice
Fifty two years, women and children scream at the sight of the flame.
Fifty two years, bring the offering closer. Now. Here. Fifty two years
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