If we were to land,
On the shores of our dead ones,
With blood in our pathway,
And scattered behind.

And if we were to dance,
On white marble floors,
And red roses strewn,
Across blood splattered snow.

Or sing to the heavens,
With broken voices,
Drowning in the glory of the song,
And its decay.

With our hearts on our sleeves,
And a dagger in our souls,
And blood on our lips,
And decay on our hands.

Our sword hands alive,
With the sound of our victims,
And the last tortured cries,
Of the damned.

All this we shall do,
On our bloody pathway,
Drinking in the sounds of decay,
With no one beside us.