A thousand graves dominating the cliff like basins The burials a day like a thousand years Swinging the rusted shovels Holding on to the half rottern arms Mark of 666 scorched Stepped on the soils where the blood dries Swinging the shovels of souls Thousands of bodies were turned into thousands of Tortured souls. Forming into a hollow hole like places to rest Staring at the present despairs Lurking within the basins of pain