The jagged lines in these wooden hands Speak of a silent aeon below the depths Of an austere ebon tide For centuries kingdoms have risen Upon the ancient
but there are no gods here... Shadows paint the dusk Ghosts rise from the flames To set alight in the fields In robes of smoke and spirit aligned
Written in the waters... [voice of the dead:] "Our shadows seep into the dusk like cranes that melt into the pool; a black lake in which they descend
[Instrumental]
They escaped the weight of darkness to forge a path into the marrow of the spirit They chose to drown in a deeper vacancy an emptiness that quells the
The jagged lines in these wooden hands speak of a silent aeon below the depths of an austere ebon tide for centuries kingdoms have risen upon the ancient
