Diaboli Virtus In Lumbis Est

All sin is of the flesh
This carnage is our penance
Because your god is no further than your own bellies

We never heeded the warnings
The desperate decrying of learned teachers
From so-called saints to godless scientists
That the elements would melt with
Fervent heat where once the ancient
Ice caps did proudly stand
That rivers of blood to a horse's
Bridal would flow, ever-growing
Where endless springs of pure water
Issued forth as if perpetually born
From their mother, Earth

That the forests
Teeming with life
Would be replaced
By a howling
Wasteland
Infected by all the humanity
That remains
Putridly rabid, verminous creatures
That once resembled man

For the weakest among the remnant
Capitulation is inevitable

Like bones picked over after a feast
The cadavers of the vanquished
Litter the landscape
As far as the eye can see
We've grown accustomed to the flames
And the perpetual
Smoke of burning flesh, but not the cold
Those who have sacrificed
Those who have not
And those who harvest
Reap what they did not sow

Though we bear witness
To our own just
Indemnification, we have not changed
How did we not see this coming
And then, returning again?

In the end, our God is no further
Than our own bellies
Our fate was settled
From the foundation
Of the worlds

Its elegy of condemnation
Forever etched into the very fabric of Time
And no amount
Of suffering
Can sponge it away

As the flock of the air, so shall be your plagues
Though the winds may cool your brow, your fever shall remain
And when the ships come for you, their decks will burst and sink
And scavengers shall lick your flesh, as you hunger for pardon