Thundra

Notice the kick of an unborn child take place,
notice the cry of an unborn child die.
All that is felt through the limber points of bones crisping, of grinding agony, until it snaps.
Now even as the rotting acres of rotting flesh seek up, into the skies of dark.
Shout is a weak way of discontent,
that there is no other way of waiting your cause.
Times of twice will tell them,
of the rage that you can feel when the clouds falls in.
There will be no comparing to the sense
They all feel when the choire start,
their choire of doom.
The sign of the voice will not be detained.