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Once raised from old ashes,
They cannot breath light,
And when Master call for their fist,
They dush into battles,
To crush accurst Light,
To disengage hoary beast,
New plague's overrunning,
Decrepit bulwarks,
Converting Old Zing to New Rot,
With favor of Saints,
Kings march to last fight,
Murmuring old grace to their swords...
