Well, geniune chaste blood
From fiedls of undead glories
An army of cowards arise
Hidden under the lust-stained
Decadent and unholy, meadow
Is the maze of lost souls
Where a stream of shames flows
And many jaded helmets lie
Broodin' 'bout memories
Whose owners are long hew'd
With vison matted by
The scarlet hot liquor
All over the mask of blame
And languid steps that lead
Nowhere but death
Is the last warrior to stand
The sword is no longer sharp
That's when true heroes bleed
In the darkest autumn night
Breaking dawn brings no light
To the dimmest suicide thoughts
That roams through hopeless heads
Light moon loiters to leave
And reeled in thick clouds
Hovers above the bloodletting
Oh, wrethced portrait of dacay
Solo
The sunlight torn sky apart
A swallowed sob for pride
Of weary or fear is cower'd
'cause the glisten of that star
Life shall grant him no more
He creeps beggin' to death
To let him just be suffused
By nightfall scent once again
Although the great warrior, he was
No mercy is there on Death's
Deabauched soul-take revelry
The veil of confort, ephemeral and soft
Brings warmth and rest to overwrought body
No flicker of hope is there in his mind
Last ashen swoon came by blurred eyes