Blackened wind above me,
spiriting woods releases the grim trees.
Hold my spine in a search for life.
Crossing the most blackest grim circle...
where ravens grim...
Where mists run...
Acroos a infernal gray.
Shadows painted with faces of horror,
lurk underneath dark and victorian.
And no shape matches around,
and no return circles ahead.
On my gray mists across the most blackest inferno grim
an circle of ravens.