The times of torture
The ages of suffering
The period of catastrophe
Of all that had befallen Harvest
Scorched, melted, and scarred into an ashen tomb;
A grave made from the bones of the heroes;
Instilled with spirit of the brave;
And invigorated with the still burning hopes of its people
A grave, however, that we have recovered
Through the fuming, torn battlefields of bloodshed and tragedy
And the mutilated, bullet-ridden remains of our foe's corpses
To comfort the souls of the mourning, and the ghosts of the fallen
With the single fact of our war: We have not lost.
Now, as we set foot on the path of no return
And cast aside our discrepancies for greater good
We go to war with sheer resolve; and an undivided thought in our minds:
They will not be forgotten.
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