They always come in groups of four,
the dark mists envelope the earth in all sacred places.
They never leave without,
taking away all that is glorious, our salvation, and our hope.

Theres nothing we can do, as they lay waste to all that we love, save for purging our minds of all nostalgia and past virtures.
Once they conscript all to there abhorrent ranks we wallow in our dread, our purgatory.

What can we do, but yet I know there is something we're still missing, an ending in our perpetual story.

They leave two behind,
with a tainted hope, for a second chance that will never show.
Lost cities and ravaged landscapes vanguard this hope for a new begining, feeding those we're supposed to loathe.
We seek an end to truly start a begining, where life and death play no part in our existance, and our volition is every determining factor, for when they come in four, we shall leave in billions.

Then, starting again from where we once were, a place of boon, harvest and new beginings, we can attempt to know of no hope, or fear, or doubt. Only a coalition will remain bound by a common fate to seek a way to stop the four.

Until then, goodbye, for now they come. Without death, there is no life, so we must go.
Remember these words, and we shall know the glory of an exstiance not bound by survival, but by the limits of our own mind.