But to what end, and at what cost?
The chest lies still, a soul is lost.
A man sweats, a man bleads-
feed for the soil beneath his feat.
His toil, his screams, their all for naught I tell ye.
For on the day he was born, he was bought.
Bound to ripen, bound to rot.
Death Stalks, upon man, and his works.
The chest lies still, a soul is lost.
A man sweats, a man bleads-
feed for the soil beneath his feat.
His toil, his screams, their all for naught I tell ye.
For on the day he was born, he was bought.
Bound to ripen, bound to rot.
Death Stalks, upon man, and his works.
