On the field

This level only left me - perverse, vicious malicious ... Saying in the days of theirs. At night, my palms squeal my crow. Caught, her golden sinews frost in the womb is barren. With a wolf cry, the abyss walks black licorice, thrush and thistle. A ray of rage in this hell, with a sardonic blaze the stink melts. Today I sift the wheat from the chaff in the heart with the name of the Lord. Eternity will conceivable impossible and I will go - worthless gold.