Coming back to hell never felt like this,
The crisp breeze flowing through the evening mist,
The sirens who scream in the middle of the night,
With chords of my voice weaving cold dawns light,
I will sing for the skies and pray that they fall,
So I may embrace them and forever fade into it all,
The serpents who rise in the arch of the sun,
An omen that tears the soul's threads undone,
Surety in the voice and completion in its task,
Secrets of the moon cut through its silver flask,
Drowning the waves and bathing the land,
Blood of the moon, which flows through each hand,
Dipped in the blades of this field overrun,
As the wasted dawn ascends I become one with the sun.