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A shield held by a broken arm
and the other one shivering upon a stone
In the forest of a no-gleaming day
they try to avoid the soon dancing sky
with all friends invited to join the violent rage

When the stones of fire crush into forest deep
I see blood and souls behind dreadly weep
against the storm the branches have grown
but the owles have left, a greed for golden throne
a finger carving the soil of stone
to see the ashes beyond and blood so cold

The Hate from Miasma Storms

A sword held by a fallen arm
and the other one shivering upon a stone
In the forest of a no-gleaming day
they try to avoid the soon dancing sky
with all friends invited to join the violent rage

A pale and spooky moon claim to behold,
the blood-stolen hands, never to fold
against the storm the branches have grown
but the owles have left, a greed for golden throne
a finger carving the soil of stone
to see the ashes beyond and blood so cold

The Hate from Miasma Storms

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