I watched how sick angels gathered in rounds
Their shrouds were gray and their wings left on grounds
They harvested souls with murderous grace
On their mouthless face… As I followed their pace
I was hoping they’ll show me the way out of there
Only felt raising hair under their hollow glare
As they rounded me, rustling evil with shrouds
Harvesting life from purgatory grounds…
I wonder… what’s my cost in the pounds?
Совмещая текст и картинку, становится понятно гораздо больше. Я не вижу в картинке ядерного взрыва, хоть, отчасти, миниатюра может быть отнесена и к этому тоже...