Sorcery and Moderna

I knew the work of His. In Ancient times, he was a pharoah to laboratory: yet let me explain. I can see, yet not hear. His soul, occupied remains to kill mine. I can hear this, screeching tumult of labelling attacks only four nights away from where I am. His nears, but are weak, and weakened from wars previous.

I make Moderna supply, fill. I grow trees to make what goes inside. Others grow weary, with no promise of innoculating. They are petchulant and sorcerers too, which contaminate His lab and my medicine.