• The Cold Breeze blowing through this dead tree
    Our Blood running in and out of every sea
    In a World only my nightmares can think of
    Where death is in the form of a black colored dove
    Where children play in confusion and despair
    Poison and fire fills the air
    Desert wasteland is that shows through my eyes
    Hidden under blackened skies

    Blood darkens the ground
    Nothing but the wind makes a sound
    The last one alive
    Or the first to survive

    Across the plains and into the dark
    A lonely venture settles his last breath
    With a whisper and broken glass