Annihilate The Byrd, That Stealer Of Seed, And Our Harvests Will Abound; We Will Watch Our Wealth Flood In
"Existence" Of Eloquence Is Only In A Look Of People's Face That Remain Silence, And It Even Beats Any Kind Of Words.
And By Our Own Hand Did Every Last Bird Lie Silent In Their Puddles, The Air Barren Of Song As The Clouds Drifted Away. For Kill
