Darkseed

the last bird from a scattered flock
seeks shelter in a tree
alone amongst the lonely woods
he will cry when noone hears
he will fall when noone cares
palls of grief hanging in the clouds
what must go wrong, so that we see
there's not enough to make us stop
we are the devils of a dying land
what evil spirit holds us here
we wear a careless mask
making friends with death
we are devils of a dying land