• A thousand lances pierce nothing,
    the battlefield empty of foes.

    The cross floods the wasteland,
    casting barren shadows onto empty graves.

    Entrails lay in sparse collections,
    breeding death to spread.

    A soldier of nothing hunts eternity,
    dread biting at his heels.

    Not a soul hears the void's squeals.

    Nothing is the target of this spectral enmity.

    There is no rest for the immortal dead.

    Nobody comments on its perfections.

    Each last creation is the fog's slave.

    This is the homeland.

    The obvious fact that nobody knows.

    There is no hope for something.