Under a dim lit sky shadows marched like statues.
Darkness was coursing throughout their veins, and light shone from their eyes.
It was all they had, but it was not enough to light their way:
A silent march into awaiting graves.
Turned my back against the night, toward the hope that there's a place where truth abides.
For here we're left to wonder why we douse the flame and there is nothing left inside.
We have become as the ravens. mighty in number and blotting out the sun.
Here my will could never contend: is this not cold and bent?
Where does my volition fit in?
Too weak to wade amongst the dead, to tired to stand amongst the rest
So face the sky and tell me how you gauge living in vain?
Show me the crooked and bent, the shape of contempt.
We've buried the flame.
But i contend to dig it up again.