III. Mountains formed by blood and pain yet stain our vision.

The deaths of our fathers, The defilement of our mothers. Vitality sucked dry so we may yet live. "O, how grateful you should feel That you have not shared their fate!" A time-old adage vomited into our gaping mouths. The dolmen stands proud: a gate of death; The solitary memorial we are allowed. Yet, this is not the sole source of memory; Olfactory keys unlock further gates. Remember, maintain clarity, The scent of old blood lingers.