The World Lock

Bullets and guns give me courage; swords and magic bestow faith upon you. Monsters drink blood, worms devour people, and the immortals in the heavens go mad.

The dead are singing.

Five kings scheme against one another; fifty thousand martyrs spill their blood in foreign lands. Swords become scrap metal, and cannon barrels turn into water jars.

Devils and venomous insects mate, producing eggs of betrayal.

The dead are singing.

A million warriors squeeze through the eye of a needle; ten million demons descend from the sky. The sun in the west never sets, and the long-armed ape reaches for the moon.

The villain bearing everything loses his way in the corridors.

Those who should have died long ago sing in carefree abandon.

“Those who should have died long ago sing alone.”